First King Of Shannara
by
Terry Brooks


FIRST KING OF SHANNARA

Also by Terry Brooks
PUBLISHED BY BALLANTINE BOOKS:

The Magic Kingdom of Landover 
MAGIC KINGDOM FOR SALE-SOLD!
THE BLACK UNICORN
WIZARD AT LARGE
THE TANGLE BOX
WITCHES' BREW

Shannara
THE SWORD OF SHANNARA
THE ELFSTONES OF SHANNARA
THE WISHSONG OF SHANNARA
The Heritage of Shannara
THE SCIONS OF SHANNARA
THE DRUID OF SHANNARA
THE ELF QUEEN OF SHANNARA
THE TALISMANS OF SHANNARA
FIRST KING OF SHANNARA

HOOK

FIRST KING OF SHANNARA

TERRY BROOKS
A Del Rey Book
BALLANTINE BOOKS NEW YORK

A Del Rey Book Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright 1996 by Terry Brooks
Endpapers map copyright (D 1996 by Laura Hartman Maestro
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the
United States by Ballantine Books, a division
of Random House, Inc. New York, and simultaneously in Canada by
Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Library of Congress Cataloging- in -Publication Data
Brooks, Terry. First king of Shannara / by Terry Brooks. - I st ed.
p. cm. ISBN 0-345-39652-9
1. Shannara (imaginary place)-Fiction. 1. Title.
PS3552R65961`57 1996
813'.54-dc2O                             95-52321
CIP
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition: March 1996
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Melody, Kate, Lloyd, Abby, and Russell Booksellers Extraordinaire

THE FALL OF PARANOR

CHAPTER 1

THE OLD MAN JUST APPEARED, seemingly out of nowhere.
The Borderman was watching for him, sitting well back within the
concealing shadows of a spreading hard wood high on a hillside
overlooking the whole of the Streleheim and the trails leading out of
it, everything clearly visible in the light of a full moon for at least
ten miles, and he still didn't see him.  It was unnerving and vaguely
embarrassing, and the fact that it happened this way every time didn't
make it any more palatable.  How did the old man do it?  The Borderman
had spent almost the whole of his life in this country, kept alive by
his wits and experience.  He saw things that others did not even know
were there.  He could read the movements of animals from their passage
through tall grass.  He could tell you how far ahead of him they were
and how fast they were traveling.  But he could not spy out the old man
on the clearest night and the broadest plain, even when he knew to look
for him.

It did not help matters that the old man easily found him.
Moving quite deliberately off the trail, he came toward the Borderman
with slow, measured strides, head lowered slightly, eyes tilted up out
of the shadow of his cowl.  He wore black, like all the Druids, cloaked
and hooded, wrapped darker than the shadows he passed through.  He was
not a big man, neither tall nor well muscled, but he gave the
impression of being hard and fixed of purpose.  His eyes, when visible,
were vaguely green.  But at times they seemed as white as bone,
especially when night stole away colors and reduced all things to
shades of gray.  They gleamed like an animal's caught in a fragment of
light feral, piercing, hypnotic.  Light illuminated the old man's face
as well, carving out the deep lines that creased it from forehead to
chin, playing across the ridges and valleys of the ancient skin.  The
old man's hair and beard were gray going fast toward white, the strands
wispy and thin like tangled spiderwebs.

The Borderman gave it up and climbed slowly to his feet.
He was tall, rangy, and broad-shouldered, his dark hair worn long and
tied back, his brown eyes sharp and steady, his lean face all planes
and angles, but handsome in a rough sort of way.

A smile crossed the old man's face as he came up.  "How are you,
Kinson?"  he greeted.

The familiar sound of his voice swept away Kinson Ravenlock's
irritation as if it were dust on the wind.  "I am well, Bremen," he
answered, and held out his hand in response.

The old man took it and clasped it firmly in his own.  The skin was dry
and rough with age, but the hand beneath was strong.  "How long have
you been waiting?"

"Three weeks.  Not as long as I had expected.  I am surprised.
But then I am always surprised by you."

Bremen laughed.  He had left the Borderman six months earlier with
instructions to meet him again on the first full moon of the quarter
season directly north of Paranor where the forests gave way to the
Plains of Streleheim.  The time and place of the meeting were set, but
hardly written in stone.  Both appreciated the uncertainties the old
man faced.  Bremen had gone north into forbidden country.  The time and
place of his return would be dictated by events not yet known to either
of them.
It was nothing to Kinson that he had been forced to wait three weeks.
It could just as easily have been three months.

The Druid looked at him with those piercing eyes, white now in the
moonlight, drained of any other color.  "Have you learned much in my
absence?  Have you put your time to good use?"

The Borderman shrugged.  "Some of it.  Sit down with me and rest.
Have you eaten?"

He gave the old man some bread and ale, and they sat hunched close
together in the dark, staring out across the broad sweep of the plains.
It was silent out there, empty and depthless and vast beneath the
night's moonlit dome.  The old man chewed absently, taking his time.
The Borderman had built no fire that night or on any other since he had
begun his vigil.  A fire was too dangerous to chance.

"The Trolls move east," Kinson offered after a moment.
"Thousands of them, more than I could count accurately, though I went
down into their camp on the new moon several weeks back when they were
closer to where we sit.  Their numbers grow as others are sent to
serve.  They control everything from the Streleheim north as far as I
can determine."  He paused. "Have you discovered otherwise?"

The Druid shook his head.  He had pushed back his cowl, and his gray
head was etched in moonlight.  "No, all of it belongs now to him."

Kinson gave him a sharp look.  "Then..."

"What else have you seen?"  the old man urged, ignoring him.

The Borderman took the aleskin and drank from it.  "The leaders of the
army stay closed away in their tents.  No one sees them.  The Trolls
are afraid even to speak their names.  This should not be.
Nothing frightens Rock Trolls.  Except this, it seems.

He looked at the other.  "But at night, sometimes, at watch for you, I
see strange shadows flit across the sky in the light of moon and stars.
Winged black things sweep across the void, hunting or scouting or
simply surveying what they have taken-I can't tell and don't want to
know.  I feel them, though.
Even now.  They are out there, circling.  I feel their presence like an
itch.  No, not like an itch-like a shiver, the sort that comes to you
when you feel eyes watching and the owner of those eyes has bad
intentions.  My skin crawls.  They do not see me I know if they did I
would be dead."

Bremen nodded.  "Skull Bearers, bound in service to him."

"So he is alive?"  Kinson could not help himself.  "You know it to be
so?  You have made certain?"

The Druid put aside the ale and bread and faced him squarely.  The eyes
were distant and filled with dark memories.

"He is alive, Kinson.  As alive as you and I. I tracked him to his
lair, deep in the shadow of the Knife Edge, where the Skull Kingdom
puts down its roots.  I was not sure at first, as you know.  I
suspected it, believed it to be so, but lacked evidence that could
stand as proof.  So I traveled north as we had planned, across the
plains and into the mountains.  I saw the winged hunters as I went,
emerging only at night, great birds of prey that patrolled and kept
watch for living things.  I made my self as invisible as the air
through which they flew.  They saw me and saw nothing.  I kept myself
shrouded in magic, but not of such significance that they would notice
it in the presence of their own.  I passed west of the Trolls, but
found the whole of their land subdued.  All who resisted have been put
to death.  All who could manage to do so have fled.  The rest now serve
him."

Kinson nodded.  It had been six months since the Troll marauders had
swept down out of the Charnals east and begun a systematic subjugation
of their people.  Their army was vast and swift, and in less than three
months all resistance was crushed.  The Northland was placed under rule
of the conquering army's mysterious and still unknown leader.  There
were rumors concerning his identity, but they remained unconfirmed.
In truth, few even knew he existed.  No word of this army and its
leader had penetrated farther south than the border settlements of
Varfleet and Tyrsis, fledgling outposts for the Race of Man, though it
had spread east and west to the Dwarves and Elves.  But the Dwarves and
Elves were tied more closely to the Trolls.  Man was the outcast race,
the more recent enemy of the others.  Memories of the First War of the
Races still lingered, three hundred and fifty years later.  Man lived
apart in his distant Southland cities, the rabbit sent scurrying to
earth, timid and toothless and of no consequence in the greater scheme
of things, food for predators and little more.

But not me, Kinson thought darkly.  Never me.  I am no rabbit.  I have
escaped that fate.  I have become one of the hunters.

Bremen stirred, shifting his weight to make himself more comfortable.
"I went deep into the mountains, searching," he continued, lost again
in his tale.  "The farther I went, the more convinced I became.  The
Skull Bearers were everywhere.  There were other beings as well,
creatures summoned out of the spirit world, dead things brought to
life, evil given form.  I kept clear of them all, watchful and
cautious.  I knew that if I was discovered my magic would probably not
be enough to save me.  The darkness of this region was overwhelming.
It was oppressive and tainted with the smell and taste of death.  I
went into Skull Mountain finally-one brief visit, for that was all I
could chance.  I slipped into the passageways and found what I had been
searching for."

He paused, his brow wrinkling.  "And more, Kinson.  Much more, and none
of it good."

"But he was there?"  Kinson pressed anxiously, his hunter's face
intense, his eyes glittering.

"He was there," affirmed the Druid quietly.  "Shrouded by his magic,
kept alive by his use of the Druid Sleep.  He does not use it wisely,
Kinson.  He thinks himself beyond the laws of nature.
He does not see that for all, however strong, there is a price to be
paid for what is usurped and enslaved.  Or perhaps he simply doesn't
care.  He has fallen under the sway of the Ildatch and cannot free
himself in any case."

"The book of magic he stole out of Paranor?"

"Four hundred years ago.  When he was simply Brona, a Druid, one of us,
and not yet the Warlock Lord."

Kinson Ravenlock knew the story.  Bremen himself had told it to him,
though the history was familiar enough among the Races that he had
already heard it a hundred times.  Galaphile, an Elf, had called
together the First Council of Druids five hundred years earlier, a
thousand years following the devastation of the Great Wars.  The
Council had met at Paranor, a gathering of the wisest men and women of
all the Races, those who had memories of the old world, those who
retained a few tattered, crumbling books, those whose learning had
survived the barba risen of a thousand years.  The Council had gathered
in a last, desperate effort to bring the Races out of the savagery that
had consumed them and into a new and better civilization.  Working
together, the Druids had begun the laborious task of assembling their
combined knowledge, of piecing together all that remained so that it
might be employed for a common good.  The goal of the Druids was to
work for the betterment of all people, regardless of anything that had
gone before.  They were Men, Gnomes, Dwarves, Elves, Trolls, and a
smattering of others, the best and wisest of the new Races risen from
the ashes of the old.  If some small wisdom could be gleaned from the
knowledge they carried, there was a chance for everyone.

But the task proved a long and difficult one, and some among the Druids
grew restless.  One was called Brona.  Brilliant, ambitious, but
careless of his own safety, he began to experiment with magic.  There
had been little in the old world, almost none since the decline of
faerie and the rise of Man.  But Brona believed that it must be
recovered and brought back.  The old sciences had failed, the
destruction of the old world was the direct result of that failure,
and the Great Wars were a lesson that the Druids seemed determined to
ignore.  Magic offered a new approach, and the books that taught it
were older and more tried than those of science.  Chief among those
books was the Ildatch, a monstrous, deadly tome that had survived every
cat aclysm since the dawn of civilization, protected by dark spells,
driven by secret needs.  Brona saw within its ancient pages the answers
he had been seeking, the solutions to the problems the Druids sought to
solve.  He resolved to have them.  His course of action was set.

Others among the Druids warned him of the dangers, others not so
impetuous, not so heedless of the lessons history had taught.  For
there had never been a form of power that did not evoke multiple
consequences.  There had never been a sword that did not cut more than
one way.  Be careful, they warned.
Do not be reckless.  But Brona and those few followers who had attached
themselves to him would not be dissuaded, and in the end they broke
with the Council.  They disappeared, taking with them the Ildatch,
their map of the new world, their key to the doors they would unlock.

In the end, it led only to their subversion.  They fell sway to its
power and became forever changed.  They came to desire power for its
own sake and for their personal use.  All else was forgotten, all other
goals abandoned.  The First War of the Races was the direct result.
The Race of Man was the tool they employed, made submissive to their
will by the magic, shaped to become their weapon of attack.  But their
effort failed in the face of the Druid Council and the combined might
of the other Races.  The aggressors were defeated, and the Race of Man
was driven south into exile and isolation.  Brona and his followers
disappeared.  It was said they had been destroyed by the magic.

"Such a fool," Bremen said suddenly.  "The Druid Sleep kept him alive,
but it stole away his heart and soul and left him a shell.  All those
years, we believed him dead.  And dead he was, in a sense.  But the
part that survived was the evil over which the magic had gained
dominance.  It was the part that sought still to claim the whole of the
world and the things that lived within it.  It was the part that craved
power over all.  What matter the price that reckless use of the Sleep
demanded?  What difference the changes exacted for the extension of a
life already wasted?  Brona had evolved into the Warlock Lord, and the
Warlock Lord would survive at all costs."

Kinson said nothing.  It bothered him that Bremen could condemn so
easily Brona's use of the Druid Sleep without questioning at the same
time his own.  For Bremen used the Sleep as well.  He would argue that
he used it in a more balanced, controlled way, that he was cautious of
its demands on his body.
He would argue that it was necessary to employ the Sleep, that he did
it so that he would be there for the Warlock Lord's in evitable return.
But for all that he might try to draw distinctions, the fact remained
that the ultimate consequences of the use were the same, whether you
were Warlock Lord or Druid.

One day, it would catch up with him.

"Did you see him, then?"  the Borderman asked, anxious to move on.
"Did you see his face?"

The old man smiled.  "He has no face or body left, Kinson.

He is a presence wrapped in a hooded cloak.  Like myself, I sometimes
think, for I am little more these days."

"That isn't so," Kinson said at once.

"No," the other quickly agreed, "it isn't.  I keep some sense of right
and wrong about me, and I am not yet a slave to the magic.

Though that is what you fear I will become, isn't it?"

Kinson did not answer.  "Tell me how you managed to get so close.
How was it that you were not discovered?"

Bremen's eyes looked away, focusing on some distant place and time.
"It was not easy," he replied softly.  "The cost was high."

He reached again for the aleskin and drank deeply, the weariness
mirrored in his face so heavy it might have been formed of iron links
dragging against his skin.  "I was forced to make myself appear one of
them," he said after a moment.  "I was required to shroud myself in
their thoughts and impulses, in the evil rooted within their souls.  I
was cloaked in invisibility, so that my physical presence did not
register, and I was left only with my spirit self.  That I cloaked in
the darkness that marks their own spirits, reaching deep within myself
for the blackest part of who I am.  Oh, I see you question that this
was possible.
Believe me, Kinson, the potential for evil lodges deep in every man,
myself included.  We restrain it better, keep it buried deeper, but it
lives within us.  I was forced to bring it out of concealment in order
to protect myself.  The feel of it, the rub of it against me, so close,
so eager, was terrible.  But it served its purpose.  It kept the
Warlock Lord and his minions from discovering me."

Kinson frowned.  "But you were damaged."

"For a time.  The walk back gave me a chance to heal."  The old man
smiled anew, a brief twist of his thin lips.  "The trouble is that once
brought so far out of its cage, a man's evil is reluctant thereafter
to be contained.  It presses against the bars.  It is more anxious to
escape.  More prepared.  And having lived in such close proximity to
it, I am more vulnerable to the possibility of that escape."

He shook his head.  "We are always being tested in life, aren't we?
This is just one more instance."

There was a long moment of silence as the two men stared at one
another.  The moon had moved across the sky to the southern edge of the
horizon and was sinking from view.  The stars were brightening with its
passing, the sky clear of clouds, a brilliant black velvet in the vast,
unbroken silence.

Kinson cleared his throat.  "As you said, you did what was required of
you.  It was necessary that you get close enough to determine if your
suspicions were correct.  Now we know."  He paused.
"Tell me.  Did you see the book as well?  The Ildatch?"

"There, in his hands, out of my reach, or I would surely have taken it
and destroyed it, even at the cost of my own life."

The Warlock Lord and the Ildatch, there in the Skull Kingdom, as real
as life, not rumor, not legend.  Kinson Ravenlock rocked back slightly
and shook his head.  Everything true, just as Bremen had feared.  As
they had both feared.  And now this army of Trolls come down out of the
Northland to subdue the Races.  It was history repeating itself.  It
was the First War of the Races beginning all over again.  Only this
time there might not be anyone to bring it to an end.

"Well, well," he said sadly.

"There is more," the Druid observed, lifting his eyes to the Borderman.
"You must hear it all.  There is an Elfstone they search for, the
winged ones.  A Black Elfstone.  The Warlock Lord learned of it from
the Ildatch.  Somewhere within the pages of that wretched book, there
is mention of this stone.  It is not an ordinary Elfstone like the
others we have heard about.
It is not one of three, one each for the heart, mind, and body of the
user, their magic to be joined when summoned.  This stone's magic is
capable of great evil.  There is some mystery about the reason for its
creation, about the use it was intended to serve.  All that has been
lost in the passing of time.  But the Ildatch makes deliberate and
purposeful reference to its capa bilities, it seems.  I was fortunate
to learn of it.  While I clung to the shadows of the wall in the great
chamber where the winged ones gather and their Master directs, I heard
mention of it."

He leaned close to the Borderman.  "It is hidden somewhere in the
Westland, Kinson-deep within an ancient stronghold, protected in ways
that you or I could not begin to imagine.  It has lain concealed since
the time of faerie, lost to history, as forgotten as the magic and the
people who once wielded it.
Now it waits to be discovered and brought back into use."

"And what is that use?"  Kinson pressed.

"it has the power to subvert other magic, whatever its form, and
convert it to the holder's use.  No matter how powerful or intricate
another's magic might be, if you hold the Black Elfstone, you can
master your adversary.  His magic will be leached from him and made
yours.  He will be helpless against you."

Kinson shook his head despairingly.  "How can anyone stand against such
a thing?"

The old man laughed softly.  "Now, now, Kinson, it isn't really that
simple, is it?  You remember our lessons, don't you?  Every use of
magic exacts a price.  There are always consequences, and the more
powerful the magic, the greater that consequence will be.  But let's
leave that argument for another time.  The point is that the Warlock
Lord must not be allowed to possess the Black Elfstone because
consequences matter not at all to him.
He is beyond the point where reason will hold sway.  So we must find
the Elfstone before he does, and we must find it quickly."

"And how are we to do that?"

The Druid yawned and stretched wearily, black robes rising and falling
in a soft rustle of cloth.  "I haven't the answer to that question,
Kinson.  Besides, we have other business to attend to first."

"You will go to Paranor and the Druid Council?"

"I must."

"But why bother?  They won't listen to you.  They mistrust you.
Some even fear you."

The old man nodded.  "Some, but not all.  There are a few who will
listen.  In any case, I must try.  They are in great danger.  The
Warlock Lord remembers all too well how they brought about his downfall
in the First War of the Races.  He will not chance their intervention a
second time-even if they no longer seem a real threat to him."

Kinson looked off into the distance.  "They are foolish to ignore you,
but ignore you they will, Bremen.  They have lost all touch with
reality behind their sheltering walls.  They have not ventured out into
the world for so long that they no longer are able to take a true
measure of things.  They have lost their identity.  They have
forgotten their purpose."

"Hush, now."  Bremen placed a firm hand on the tall man's shoulder.

"There is no point in repeating to ourselves what we already know.  We
will do what we can and then be on our way."  He squeezed gently.  "I
am very tired.  Would you keep watch for a few hours while I sleep?  We
can leave after that."

The Borderman nodded.  "I'll keep watch."

The old man rose and moved deeper into the shadows beneath the
wide-boughed tree, where he settled down comfortably within his robes
on a soft patch of grass.  Within minutes he was asleep, his breathing
deep and regular.  Kinson stared down at him.  Even then, his eyes were
not quite closed.  From behind narrow slits, there was a glimmer of
light.

Like a cat, thought Kinson, looking away quickly.  Like a dangerous
cat.

Time PASSED, and the night lengthened.  Midnight came and went.
The moon dropped below the horizon, and the stars spun in vast,
kaleidoscopic patterns across the black.  Silence lay heavy and
absolute over the Streleheim, and on the emptiness of the plains
nothing moved.  Even within the trees where Kinson Ravenlock kept
watch, there was only the sound of the old man's breathing.

The Borderman glanced down at his companion.  Bremen, as much an
outcast as himself, alone in his beliefs, exiled for truths that only
he could accept.

They were alike in that regard, he thought.  He was reminded of their
first meeting.  The old man had come to him at an inn in Varfleet,
seeking his services.  Kinson Ravenlock had been a scout, Tracker,
explorer, and adventurer for the better part of twenty years, since the
time he was fifteen.  He had been raised in Callahorn, a part of its
frontier life, a member of one of a handful of families who had
remained in the Borderlands when everyone else had gone much farther
south, distancing themselves from their past.  After the conclusion of
the First War of the Races, when the Druids had partitioned the Four
Lands and left Paranor at the crux, Man had determined to leave a
buffer between itself and the other Races.  So while the Southland
reached as far north as the Dragon's Teeth, Man had abandoned almost
everything above the Rainbow Lake.  Only a few Southland families had
stayed on, believing that this was their home, finding themselves
unwilling to move to the more populated areas of their assigned land.
The Ravenlocks had been one of these.

So Kinson had grown up as a Borderman, living on the edge of
civilization, but as comfortable with Elves, Dwarves, Gnomes, and
Trolls as with Men.  He had traveled their lands and learned their
customs.  He had mastered their tongues.  He
was a student of history, and he had heard it told from enough
different points of view that he thought he had gleaned the most
important of the truths that it had to offer.  Bremen was a student of
history as well, and right from the beginning they had shared some
common beliefs.  One of these was that the Races could succeed in their
efforts to maintain peace only by strengthening their ties to one
another, not by distancing them selves.  A second was that the greatest
obstacle to their success in doing so was the Warlock Lord.

Even then, even five years earlier, the rumors were already being
passed around.  There was something evil living in the Skull Kingdom, a
collection of beasts and creatures like nothing ever seen before.
There were reports of flying things, winged monsters scouring the land
by night in search of mortal victims.
There were stories of men going north and never being seen again.
The Trolls stayed away from the Knife Edge and the Maig.  They did not
attempt to cross the Kierlak.  When they traveled in proximity to the
Skull Kingdom, they banded together in large, heavily armed groups.
Nothing would grow in this part of the Northland.  Nothing would take
root.  As time passed, the whole of that devastated region became
shrouded in clouds and mist.  It became arid and barren.  It turned to
dust and rock.  Nothing could live there, it was said.  Nothing that
was really alive.

Most dismissed the stories.  Many ignored the matter entirely.
This was a remote and unfriendly part of the world in any case.  What
difference did it make what lived or didn't live there?  But Kinson had
gone into the Northland to see for him self.  He had barely escaped
with his life.  The winged things had tracked him for five days after
they had caught him prowling at the edge of their domain.  Only his
great skill and more than a little luck had saved him.

So when Bremen approached him, he had already made up his mind that
what the Druid was saying was true.  The Warlock Lord was real.
Brona and his followers lived north in the Skull Kingdom.  The threat
to the Four Lands was not imagined.
Something unpleasant was slowly taking shape.

He had agreed to accompany the old man on his journeys, to serve as a
second pair of eyes when needed, to act as courier and scout, and to
watch the other's back when danger threatened.  Kinson had done so for
a number of reasons, but none so compelling as the fact that for the
first time in his life it gave him a sense of purpose.  He was tired of
drifting, of living for no better reason than to see again what he had
already seen be fore and to be paid for the privilege.  He was bored
and directionless.  He wanted a challenge.

Bremen had certainly given him that.

He shook his head wonderingly.  It surprised him how far they had come
together and how close they had grown.  It surprised him how much both
of those things mattered to him.

A flicker of movement far out on the empty stretches of the Streleheim
caught his eye.  He blinked and stared fixedly into the dark, seeing
nothing.  Then the movement came again, a small flutter of blackness in
the shadow of a long ravine.  It was so distant that he could not be
certain what he was seeing, but already he suspected.  A cold knot
tightened in his stomach.  He had seen movement like this before,
always at night, always in the emptiness of some desolate place along
the borders of the Northland.

He remained motionless, watching, hoping he was wrong.

The movement came again, closer this time.  Something lifted from the
earth, hung suspended against the dark patchwork of the night plains,
then dipped downward once more.  It might have been a great winged bird
in search of food, but it wasn't.

It was one of the Skull Bearers.

Still Kinson waited, determined to make certain of the creature's
path.  Again the shadow lifted away from the earth and soared into the
starlight, angling along the ravine for a distance before moving away,
coming steadily closer to where the Borderman and the Druid were
concealed.  Again it dipped downward and disappeared into the blackness
of the earth.

Kinson realized with a sinking feeling what the Skull Bearer was
doing. It was tracking someone.

Bremen.

He turned quickly now, but the old man was already beside him, staring
past him into the night.  "I was just about to...."

 "Wake me," the other finished.  "Yes, I know."

Kinson looked back across the plains.  Nothing moved.  "Did you see?" 
he asked softly, 

"Yes."  Bremen's voice was alert, but calm.
"One of them tracks me."

"You are certain?  It follows your trail, not another's?"

"Somehow I was careless in my passage out."  Bremen's eyes glittered.
"It knows I have passed this way and seeks to find where I have gone.
I wasn't seen within the Skull Kingdom, so this is a chance discovery.
I should have used more caution crossing the plains, but I thought
myself safe."

They watched as the Skull Bearer reappeared, lifting skyward
momentarily, gliding soundlessly across the landscape, then lowering
into shadow once more.

"There is time yet before it reaches us," Bremen whispered.
"I think we should be on our way.  We will disguise our tracks to
confuse it should it choose to follow us further.  Paranor and the
Druids await.  Come, Kinson."

Together they rose and slipped back through the shadows and down the
far side of the hill into the trees.  They went soundlessly, their
movements smooth and practiced, their dark forms seeming to glide
across the earth.

In seconds they had disappeared from view.

CHAPTER 2

THEY WALKED the remainder of the night through the sheltering forest,
Kinson leading, Bremen a shadow following in his footsteps.
Neither spoke, comfortable with the silence and each other.  They did
not see the Skull Bearer again.  Bremen used magic to hide their
tracks, just enough to conceal their passing without calling attention
to it. But it seemed the winged hunter had chosen not to go below the
Streleheim in its search, for had it done so they would have sensed its
presence.  As it was, they sensed only the creatures who lived there
and no others.  For the moment at least, they were safe.

Kinson Ravenlock's stride was tireless, its fluid movement honed and
shaped from dozens of years of travel afoot through the Four Lands.
The Borderman was big and strong, a man in the prime of his life, still
able to rely on reflex and speed when the need arose.  Bremen watched
him admiringly, remembering his own youth, thinking how far down the
path of his life he had traveled.  The Druid Sleep had given him a
longer life than most-a longer one than he was entitled to by nature's
law-but still it was not enough.  He could feel his strength leaking
from his body almost daily.  He could still keep up with the Borderman
when they traveled, but it was no longer possible to do so without the
aid of his magic.  He supplemented himself at almost every turn these
days, and he knew that the time left to him in this world was growing
short.

Still, he was confident in himself.  He had always been so, and that
more than anything had kept him strong and alive.  He had come to the
Druids as a young man, his training and skills in the fields of history
and ancient tongues.  Times had been much different then, the Druids
still active in the evolution and development of the Races, still
working to bring the Races together in the pursuit of common goals.  It
was only later, less than seventy years ago, that they had begun to
withdraw from their involvement in favor of private study.
Bremen had come to Paranor to learn, and he had never stopped wanting
and needing to do so.  But learning required more than closeted study
and meditation.  It required travel and interaction with others,
discussions on subjects of mutual interest, an awareness of the tide of
change in life that could only come from observance, and a willingness
to accept that the old ways might not offer all the answers.

So it was that early on he accepted that magic might prove a more
manageable and durable form of power than the sciences of the world
before the Great Wars.  All the knowledge gleaned from memories and
books from the time of Galaphile forward had failed to produce what was
needed of science.  It was too fragmented, too removed in time from the
civilization it was needed to serve, too obscure in its purpose to
provide the keys to unlock the doors of understanding.  But magic was
an other matter.  Magic was older than science and more readily
accessible.  The Elves, who had come from that time, had knowledge of
it.  Though they had lived in hiding and isolation for many years, they
possessed books and writings far more de cipherable in their purpose
than those of the old-world sciences.  True, much was still missing,
and the great magics of faerie were gone and would not be easily
recovered.  But there was better hope for these than for the sciences
over which the Druid Council continued to struggle.

But the Council remembered what evocation of magic had cost them in the
First War of the Races, what had befallen Brona and his followers, and
they were not about to unlock that door again.  Study of magic was
permissible, but discouraged.  It was treated as a curiosity with few
usable tools, the practice in general not to be embraced as a doorway
to the future under any circumstances.  Bremen had argued the point
endlessly and without success.  The majority of the Druids at Paranor
were hidebound and not open to the possibility of change.
Learn from your mistakes, they intoned.  Do not forget how dangerous
the practice of magic can be.  Best to forget your momentary interests
in place of serious study.  Bremen would not, of course could not, in
fact.  It went counter to his nature to discard a possibility simply
because it had failed once.  Failed because of blatant misuse, he would
remind them-something that did not necessarily have to happen a second
time.  A few agreed with him.  But in the end, when his persistence
grew intolerable and he was banished from the Council, he departed
alone.

He traveled then to the Westland and lived with the Elves for many
years, studying their lore, poring over their writings, trying to
recover some of what they had lost when the creatures of faerie gave
way to mortal men.  A few things he brought with him.  The secret of
the Druid Sleep was already his, though still in its rudimentary form.
Mastery of its intricacies and acceptance of its consequences took
time, and it did not serve as a useful tool until he was already quite
old.  The Elves embraced Bremen as a kindred spirit and gave him access
to their store of small magics and all but forgotten writings.  In
time, he discovered treasures amid the discards.  He went out into the
other lands, discovering bits of magic there as well, though not so
highly developed and in many instances foreign even to the people whom
they served.

All the while he worked steadily to confirm his growing conviction that
the rumors of the Warlock Lord and his Skull Bearers were true, that
these were the rebel Druids who had fled Paranor all those years ago,
that these were the creatures who had been defeated in the First War of
the Races.  But the proof had been like the scent of flowers carried on
the wind, there one moment and gone the next.  He had tracked it relentlessly, across borders and
kingdoms, through villages near and far,
from one tale to the next.  In the end, he had tracked it to the Skull
Kingdom itself, to the heart of the Warlock Lord's domain, there in
the catacombs where he had concealed himself with the dark one's
minions, waiting out events that would allow him to escape with his
truth.  Had he been stronger, he might have gotten to that truth
sooner.  But it had taken him years to develop the skills necessary to
survive a journey north.
It had taken years of study and exploration.  It might have taken less
time had the Council supported him, had they put aside their
superstitions and fears and embraced the possibilities as he had, but
that had never happened.

He sighed, remembering it now.  Thinking of it made him sad.  So much
time wasted.  So many opportunities missed.  Per haps it was already
too late for those at Paranor.  What could he say now to convince them
of the danger they faced?  Would they even believe him when he told
them what he had discovered?  It had been more than two years since he
had visited the Keep.  Some probably thought him dead.
Some might even wish him so.  It would not be easy to convince them
that they had been wrong in their assumptions about the Warlock Lord,
that they must rethink their commitment to the Races, and, most
important, that they must reconsider their refusal to use magic.

They passed out of the deep forest as dawn broke, the light brightening
from silver to gold as the sun crept over the rim of the Dragon's Teeth
and poured down through breaks in the trees to warm the damp earth.

The trees thinned before them, reduced to small groves and solitary
sentinels.  Ahead, Paranor rose out of the misty light.  The fortress
of the Druids was a massive stone citadel seated on a foundation of
rock that jutted from the earth like a fist.  The walls of the fortress
rose skyward hundreds of feet to form towers and battlements bleached
vivid white.  Pennants flew at every turn, some honoring the separate
insignia of the High Druids who had served, some marking the houses of
the rulers of the Four Lands.  Mist clung to the high reaches and
swathed the darker shadows at the castle base where the sun had not yet
burned away the night.  It was an im pressive sight, Bremen thought.
Even now, even to him who was outcast.

Kinson glanced inquiringly over his shoulder, but Bremen nodded for him
to go on.  There was nothing to be gained by delay.  Still, the very
size of the fortress gave him pause.  The weight of its stone seemed to
settle down across his shoulders, a burden he could not overcome.  Such
a massive, implacable force, he thought, mirroring in some sense the
stubborn resolve of those who dwelled within.  He wished it might be
otherwise.
He knew he must try to make it so.

They passed out of the trees, where the sunlight was still an intruder
amid the shadows, and walked clear of the fading night down the roadway
to approach the main gates.  Already there were a handful of armed men
emerging to meet them, part of the multinational force that served the
Council as the Druid Guard.  All were dressed in gray uniforms with a
torch emblem embroidered in red on their left breast.
Bremen looked for a recognizable face and found none.  Well, he had
been gone two years, after all.  At least these were Elves set at
watch, and Elves might hear him out.

Kinson moved aside deferentially and let him step to the fore.  He
straightened himself, calling on the magic to give him added presence,
to disguise the weariness he felt, to hide any weakness or doubt.  He
moved up to the gates determinedly, black robes billowing out behind
him, Kinson a dark presence on his right.  The guards waited,
flat-faced and expressionless.

When he reached them, feeling them wilt just a bit with his approach,
he said simply, "Good morning to all."

"Good morning to you, Bremen," replied one, stepping forward, offering
a short bow.

"You know me then?"

The other nodded.  "I know of you.  I am sorry, but you are not allowed
to enter."

His eyes shifted to include Kinson.  He was polite, but firm.
No outcast Druids allowed.  No members of the race of Man either.
Discussion not advised.


Bremen glanced upward to the parapets as if considering the matter.
"Who is Captain of the Guard?"  he asked.

"Caerid Lock," the other answered.

"Will you ask him to come down and speak with me?"

The Elf hesitated, pondering the request.  Finally, he nodded.
"Please wait here."

He disappeared through a side door into the Keep.  Bremen and Kinson
stood facing the remaining guards in the shadow of the fortress wall.
It would have been an easy matter to go by them, to leave them standing
there looking at nothing more than empty images, but Bremen had
determined not to use magic to gain entry.  His mission was too
important to risk in curring the anger of the Council by circumventing
their security and making them look foolish.  They would not appreciate
tricks.  They might respect directness.  It was a gamble he was willing
to take.

Bremen turned and looked back at the forest.  Sunlight probed its deep
recesses now, chasing back the shadows, brightening the fragile stands
of wildflowers.  It was spring, he realized with a start.  He had lost
track of time on his journey north and back again, consumed with his
search.  He breathed the air, taking in a hint of the fragrance it bore
from the woods.  It had been a long time since he had thought about
flowers.

There was movement in the doorway behind him, and he turned.  The guard
who had left reappeared and with him was Caerid Lock.

"Bremen," the Elf greeted solemnly, and came up to offer his hand.

Caerid Lock was a slight, dark-complected man with intense eyes and a
careworn face.  His Elven features marked him distinctly, his brows
slanted upward, his ears pointed, his face so narrow he seemed gaunt.
He wore gray like the others, but the torch on his breast was gripped
in a fist and there were crimson bars on both shoulders.  His hair and
beard were cut short and both were shot through with gray.  He was one
of a few who had remained friends with Bremen when the Druid was
 dismissed from the Council.  He had been Captain of the Druid Guard for
more than fifteen years, and there was not a better man anywhere for
the job.  An Elven Hunter with a lifetime of service, Caerid Lock was a
thorough professional.  The Druids had chosen well in determining who
would protect them.  More to the point, for Bremen's purpose, he was a
man they might listen to if a request was proffered.

"Caerid, well met," the Druid replied, accepting the other's hand.
"Are you well?"

"As well as some I know.  You've aged a few years since leaving us.
The lines are in your face."

"You see the mirror of your own, I'd guess."

"Perhaps.  Still traveling the world, are you?"

"in the good company of my friend, Kinson Ravenlock," he introduced the
other.

The Elf took the Borderman's hand and measure by equal turns, but said
nothing.  Kinson was equally remote.

"I need your help, Caerid," Bremen advised, turning solemn.

"I must speak with Athabasca and the Council."

Athabasca was High Druid, an imposing man of firm belief and unyielding
opinion who had never much cared for Bremen.
He was a member of the Council when the old man was dis missed, though
he was not yet High Druid.  That had come later, and then only through
the complex workings of internal politics that Bremen so hated.
Still, Athabasca was leader, for better or worse, and any chance of
success in breaching these walls would necessarily hinge on him.

Caerid Lock smiled ruefully.  "Why not ask me for some thing
difficult?
You know that Paranor and the Council both are forbidden to you.  You
cannot even enter these walls, let alone speak with the High Druid."

"I can if he orders it," Bremen said simply.

The other nodded.  Sharp eyes narrowed.  "I see.  You want me to speak
to him on your behalf."

Bremen nodded.  Caerid's tight smile disappeared.  "He doesn't like
you," he pointed out quietly.  "That hasn't changed in your absence."

"He doesn't have to like me to talk with me.  What I have to tell him
is more important than personal feelings.  I will be brief.  Once he
has heard me out, I will be on my way again."
He paused.  "I don't think I am asking too much, do you?"

Caerid Lock shook his head.  "No."  He glanced at Kinson.  "I will do
what I can."

He went back inside, leaving the old man and the Border man to
contemplate the walls and gates of the Keep.  Their warders stood
firmly in place, barring all entry.  Bremen regarded them solemnly for
a moment, then glanced toward the sun.  The day was beginning to grow
warm already.  He looked at Kinson, then walked over to where the
shadows provided a greater measure of shade and sat down on a stone
outcropping.  Kinson followed, but refused to sit.  There was an
impatient look in his dark eyes.  He wanted this matter to be finished. 
He was ready to move on.  Bremen smiled inwardly.  How like his
friend. Kinson's solution to everything was to move on.  He had lived his whole
life that way.  It was only now, since they had met, that he had begun
to see that nothing is ever solved if it isn't faced.  It wasn't that
Kinson wasn't capable of standing up to life.  He simply dealt with
unpleasantness by leaving it behind, by outdistancing it, and it was
true that things could be handled that way.  It was just that there was
never any permanent resolution.

Yes, Kinson had grown since those early days.  He was a stronger man in
ways that could not be readily measured.  But Bremen knew that old
habits died hard, and for Kinson Raven lock the urge to walk away from
the unpleasant and the difficult was always there.

"This is a waste of our time," the Borderman muttered, as if to give
credence to his thoughts.

"Patience, Kinson," Bremen counseled softly.

"Patience?  Why?  They won't let you in.  And if they do, they won't
listen to you.  They don't want to hear what you have to say.
These are not the Druids of old, Bremen."

Bremen nodded.  Kinson was right in that.  But there was no help for
it.  The Druids of today were the only Druids there were, and some of
them were not so bad.  Some would still make worthy allies.  Kinson
would prefer they deal with matters on their own, but the enemy they
faced was too formidable to be overcome without help.  The Druids were
needed.  While they had abandoned their practice of direct involvement
in the affairs of the Races, they were still regarded with a certain
deference and respect.  That would prove useful in uniting the Four
Lands against their common enemy.

The morning wore on toward midday.  Caerid Lock did not reappear.

Kinson paced for a time, then finally sat down next to Bremen,
frustration mirrored on his lean face.  He sat wrapped in silence,
wearing his darkest look.

Bremen sighed inwardly.  Kinson had been with him a long time.
Bremen had handpicked him from among a number of candidates for the
task of ferreting out the truth about the War lock Lord.  Kinson had
been the right choice.  He was the best Tracker the old man had ever
known.  He was smart and brave and clever.  He was never reckless,
always reasoned.  They had grown so close that Kinson was like a son to
him.  He was certainly his closest friend.

But he could not be the one thing Bremen needed him to be.  He could
not be the Druid's successor.  Bremen was old and failing, though he
hid it well enough from those who might suspect.  When he was gone,
there would be no one left to continue his work.  There would be no
one to advance the study of magic so necessary to the evolution of the
Races, no one to prod the recalcitrant Druids of Paranor into
reconsidering their involvement with the Four Lands, and no one to
stand against the Warlock Lord.  Once, he had hoped that Kinson
Ravenlock might be that man.  The Borderman might still be, he
supposed, but it did not seem likely.  Kinson lacked the necessary patience.
He disdained any pretense of diplomacy.  He had no time for those who
could not grasp truths he felt were obvious.  Experience was the only
teacher he had ever respected.  He was an iconoclast and a persistent
loner.  None of these characteristics would serve him well as a Druid,
but it seemed impossible that he could ever be any different from the
way he was.

Bremen glanced over at his friend, suddenly unhappy with his analysis.
It was not fair to judge Kinson so.  It was enough that the Borderman
was as devoted as he was, enough that he would stand with him to the
death if it was required.  Kinson was the best of friends and allies,
and it was wrong to expect more of him.

It was just that his need for a successor was so desperate!  He was
old, and time was slipping away too quickly.

He took his eyes from Kinson and looked off into the distant trees as
if to measure what little remained.

It was past midday when Caerid Lock finally reappeared.  He stalked out
of the shadows of the doorway with barely a glance at the guards or
Kinson and came directly to Bremen.  The Druid climbed to his feet to
greet him, his joints and his muscles cramped.

"Athabasca will speak with you," the Captain of the Druid Guard
advised, grim-faced.

Bremen nodded.  "You must have worked hard to persuade him.  I am in
your debt, Caerid."

The Elf grunted noncommittally.  "I would not be so sure.
Athabasca has his own reasons for agreeing to this meeting, I think."
He turned to Kinson.  "I am sorry, but I could not gain entrance for
you."

Kinson straightened and shrugged.  "I will be happier waiting here, I
expect."

"I expect," agreed the other.  "I will send you out some food and fresh
water.  Bremen, are you ready?"

The Druid looked at Kinson and smiled faintly.  "I will be back as soon
as I can."

"Good luck to you," his friend offered quietly.

Then Bremen was following Caerid Lock through the entry of the Keep and
into the shadows beyond.

THEY WALKED DOWN cavernous hallways and winding, narrow corridors in
cool, dark silence, their footsteps echoing off the heavy stone.

They encountered no one.  It was as if Paranor were deserted, and
Bremen knew that was not so.  Several times, he thought he caught a
whisper of conversation or a hint of movement somewhere distant from
where they walked, but he could never be certain.  Caerid was taking
him down the back passageways, the ones seldom used, the ones kept
solely for private comings and goings.  It seemed understandable.
Athabasca did not want the other Druids to know he was permitting this
meeting until after he had decided if it was worth having.  Bremen
would be given a private audience and a brief opportunity to state his
case, and then he would be either summarily dismissed or summoned to
address the Council.  Either way, the decision would be made quickly.

They began to climb a series of stairs toward the upper chambers of the
Keep.  Athabasca's offices were well up in the tower, and it was likely
that he intended to see Bremen there.
The old man pondered Caerid Lock's words as they proceeded.
Athabasca would have his reasons for agreeing to this meeting, and they
would not necessarily be immediately apparent.
The High Druid was a politician first, an administrator second, and a
functionary above all.  This was not to demean him; it was simply to
categorize the nature of his thinking.  His primary focus would be one
of cause and effect-that is, if one thing happened, how would it impact
on another.  That was the way his mind worked.  He was able and
organized, but he was calculating as well.  Bremen would have to be
careful in choosing his words.

They were almost to the end of a connecting corridor when a black-robed
figure suddenly stepped out of the shadows to confront them.  Caerid
Lock instinctively reached for his short sword, but the other's hands
were already gripping the Elf's arms and pinning them to his sides.
With so little effort that it seemed to be an afterthought, the robed
figure lifted Caerid from the floor and set him to one side like a
minor impediment.

"There, there, Captain," a rough voice soothed.  "No need for weapons
among friends.  I'm after a quick word with your charge, and then I'll
be out of your way."

"Risca!"  Bremen greeted in surprise.  "Well met, old friend!"

"I'll thank you to remove your hands, Risca," snapped Caerid Lock
irritably.  "I wouldn't be reaching for my weapons if you didn't jump
at me without announcing yourself!"

"Apologies, Captain," the other purred.  He took his hands away and
held them up defensively.  Then he looked at Bremen.
"Welcome home, Bremen of Paranor."

Risca came forward then into the light and embraced the old man.

He was a bearded, bluff-faced Dwarf with tremendous shoulders, his
compact body stocky and broad and heavily muscled.  Arms like tree
trunks crushed briefly and released, replaced by hands that were
gnarled and callused.  Risca was like a deeply rooted tree stump that
nothing could dislodge, weathered by time and the seasons, impervious
to age.  He was a warrior Druid, the last who remained of that breed,
skilled in the use of weapons and warfare, steeped in the lore of the
great battles fought since the new Races had emerged.  Bremen had
trained him personally until his banishment from the Keep more than ten
years ago.  Through all that had happened, Risca had stayed his
friend.

"Not of Paranor any longer, Risca," Bremen demurred.  "But it feels
like home still.  How have you been?"

"Well.  But bored.  There is little use for my talents behind these
walls.  Few of the new Druids have any interest in battle arts.
I stay sharp practicing with the Guard.  Caerid tests me daily."

The Elf snorted.  "You have me for breakfast daily, you mean.

What are you doing here?  How did you know to find us?"

Risca released Bremen and looked about mysteriously.
"These walls have ears, for those who know how to listen."

Caerid Lock laughed in spite of himself.  "Spying-another finely honed
art in the arsenal of warrior skills!"

Bremen smiled at the Dwarf.  "You know why I've come?"

"I know you are to speak with Athabasca.  But I wanted to speak with
you first.  No, Caerid.  You may remain for this.  I have no secrets I
cannot reveal to you."  The Dwarf's countenance turned serious.
"There can be only one reason for your return, Bremen.  And no news
that can be welcome.  So be it.  But you will need allies in this, and
I am one.  Count on me to be your voice when it matters.  I have
seniority in the Council that few others who support you can offer.
You need to know how matters stand, and they do not favor your
return."

"I hope to persuade Athabasca that our common need requires us to set
aside our differences."  Bremen furrowed his brow thoughtfully.
"It cannot be so difficult to accept this."

Risca shook his head.  "It can and it will.  Be strong, Bremen.
Do not defer to him.  He dislikes what you represents challenge to his
authority.  Nothing you say or do will transcend that.  Fear is a
weapon that will serve you better than reason.  Let him understand the
danger."  He looked suddenly at Caerid. "Would you advise differently?"

The Elf hesitated, then shook his head.  "No."

Risca reached forward to grip Bremen's hands once more.  "I will speak
with you later."

He wheeled down the corridor and disappeared back into the shadows.
Bremen smiled in spite of himself.  Strong in body and mind, unyielding
in all things.  That was Risca.  He would never change.

They continued on once more, the Elf Captain and the old man,
navigating the dimly lit corridors and stairways, winding deeper into
the Keep, until finally they came to a landing at the top of a flight
of stairs that fronted a small, narrow, ironbound door.  Bremen had
seen this door more than a few times in his years at the castle.  It
was the back entry to the offices of the High Druid.  Athabasca would
be waiting within to receive him. He took a deep breath.

Caerid Lock tapped on the door three times, paused, then tapped once
more.  From within, a familiar voice rumbled, "Enter."

The Captain of the Druid Guard pushed the narrow door open, then
stepped aside.  "I have been asked to wait here," he advised softly.

Bremen nodded, amused by the solemnity he found in the other's face, "I
understand," he said.  "Thank you again, Caerid."

Then he stooped to clear the low entry and moved inside.

The room was a familiar one.  It was the exclusive chamber of the High
Druid, a private retreat and meeting place for the Council's leader.
It was a large room with a high ceiling, tall windows of leaded glass,
bookcases filled with papers, artifacts, diaries, files, and a
scattering of books.  Massive, ironbound double doors were centered on
the front wall, across from where he stood.  A huge desk rested at the
chamber's center, swept clean for the moment of everything, the wood
surface burnished and shining in the candlelight.

Athabasca stood behind the desk, waiting.  He was a big, heavyset,
imperious man with a shock of flowing white hair and cold blue eyes set
deep in a florid face.  He wore the dark blue robes of the High Druid,
which were belted at the waist and free of any insignia.  Instead, he
wore about his neck the Eilt Druin, the medallion of office of High
Druids since the time of Galaphile.  The Eilt Druin was forged of gold
and a small mix of strengthening metals and laced with silver
trappings.  It was molded in the shape of a hand holding forth a burning torch.
The hand and the torch had been the symbol of the Druids since the time
of their inception.  The medallion was said to be magic, though no one
had ever seen the magic used.  The words "Eilt Druin" were Elven and
meant literally "Through Knowledge, Power."

Once, that motto had meant something for the Druids.
Another of life's small ironies, Bremen thought wearily.

"Well met, Bremen," Athabasca greeted in his deep, sonorous voice.
The greeting was traditional, but Athabasca's rendering of it sounded
hollow and forced.

"Well met, Athabasca," Bremen replied.  "I am grateful that you agreed
to see me."

"Caerid Lock was quite persuasive.  Besides, we do not turn from our
walls those who were once brethren."

Once, but no more, he was saying.  Bremen moved forward into the room
to stand on the near side of the great desk, feeling himself separated
from Athabasca by more than the broad expanse of its polished top.  He
wondered anew at how small the big man could make another feel in his
presence, how like a little boy.  For while Bremen was older by some
years than Athabasca, he could not escape the sense that he stood in
the presence of an elder.

"What would you tell me, Bremen?"  Athabasca asked him.

"That the Four Lands stand in peril," Bremen answered.
"That the Trolls have been subjugated by a power that tran scends
physical life and mortal strength.  That the other Races will fall as
well if we do not intervene to protect them.  That even the Druids are
in great danger."

Athabasca fingered the Eilt Druin absently.  "What form does this
threat take?  Is it one of magic?"

Bremen nodded.  "The rumors are true, Athabasca.  The War lock Lord is
a real creature.  But more, he is the reincarnation of the rebel Druid
Brona, who was thought vanquished and de stroyed more than three
hundred years ago.  He has survived, kept alive by malicious, reckless
use of the Druid Sleep and by the destruction of his soul.  He no
longer has form, only spirit.
Yet the fact remains that he lives and is the source of the danger that
threatens."

"You have seen him?  You have searched him out in your travels?"

"I have."

"How did you accomplish this?  Did he permit you entry?
Surely you must have entered in disguise."

"I cloaked myself with a magic of invisibility for some of the journey.
Then I cloaked myself in the dark trappings of the Warlock Lord's own
evil, a disguise that even he could not penetrate."

"You made yourself one with him?"  Athabasca had clasped his hands
behind him.  His eyes were steady and watchful.

 "For a time, I became as he
was.  It was necessary to get close enough to make certain of my
suspicions."

"And what if by becoming one with him, you were in some way subverted,
Bremen?  What if by use of the magic you lost your perspective and your
balance?  How can you be certain that what you saw was not imagined?
How can you know that the discovery you carry back to us is real?"

Bremen forced himself to stay calm.  "I would know if the magic had
subverted me, Athabasca.  I have given years of my life to its study.
I know it better than anyone."

Athabasca smiled, chilly and doubting.  "But that is exactly the point.
How well can any of us appreciate the magic's power?  You broke from
the Council to undertake on your own a study that you were warned
against.  You pursued the very same course that another once
pursued-the creature you claim to hunt.  It subverted him, Bremen.  How
can you be so certain that it has not subverted you as well?  Oh, I am
confident you believe you are impervious to its sway.  But that was
true of Brona and his followers, too.  Magic is an insidious force, a
power that transcends our understanding and cannot be relied upon.  We
have looked to its use before and been deceived.  We look to its use
still, but we are more cautious than we once were-cautious, because we
have learned through the misfortune of Brona and the others what can
happen.  Yet how cautious have you been, Bremen?  The magic subverts;
that much we know.  It subverts all who use it, one way or another, and
in the end it destroys its user."

Bremen kept his voice steady as he replied, "There are no absolutes to
the results of its application, Athabasca.  Subversion can come by
degrees and in different forms, depending on the ways in which the
magic is applied.  But this was true with the old sciences as well.
All applications of power subvert.  That does not mean they cannot be
utilized for a higher good.  I know you do not approve of my work, but
there is value to it.
I do not regard the power of magic lightly.  But neither do I disdain
the limits of its possibilities."

Athabasca shook his leonine head.  "I think you are too close to your
subject matter to judge it objectively.  It was your failing when you
left us."

"Perhaps," Bremen acknowledged quietly.  "But none of this matters
now. What matters is that we are threatened.  The Druids, Athabasca.
Brona surely remembers what led to his downfall in the First War of the
Races.  If he intends to try to conquer the Four Lands once more, as
now seems probable, he will seek first to destroy what threatens him
most.  The Druids.  The Council. Paranor."

Athabasca regarded him solemnly for a moment, then turned and walked to
one of the windows and stood looking out at the sunlight.

Bremen waited a moment, then said, "I have come to ask that you allow
me to address the Council.  Allow me the chance to tell the others what
I have seen.  Let them weigh for themselves the merits of my argument."

The High Druid turned back, chin lifted slightly so that he seemed to be
looking down on Bremen.  "We are a community within these walls,
Bremen.  We are a family.  We live with one another as we would with
brothers and sisters, engaged in a single course of action-to gain
knowledge of our world and its workings.  We do not favor one member of
the community over another; we treat all as equals.  This is something
you have never been able to accept."

Bremen started to protest, but Athabasca held up his hand for silence.
"You left us on your own terms.  You chose to abandon your family and
your work for private pursuits.  Your studies could not be shared with
us, for they transgressed the lines of authority that we had
established.  The good of the one can never be allowed to displace the
good of the whole.  Families must have order.  Each member of the
family must have respect for the others.  When you left us, you showed
disrespect for the Council's wishes in the matter of your studies.  You
felt you knew better than we did.  You gave up your place in our
society."

He gave Bremen a cold look.  "Now you would come back to us and be our
leader.  Oh, don't bother with denials, Bremen!
What else would you be but exactly that?  You arrive with knowledge you
claim is peculiar to yourself, with studies of power known only to you,
and with a plan for the salvation of the Races that only you can
implement.  The Warlock Lord is real.  The Warlock Lord is Brona.  The
rebel Druid has subverted the magic to his own use and tamed the
Trolls.  All will march against the Four Lands.  You are our only hope.
You must advise us on what we are to do and then command us in our
duties as we set out to stop this travesty.  You, who abandoned us for
so long, must now lead."

Bremen shook his head slowly.  Already he knew how this must end, but
he forged ahead anyway.  "I would lead no one.
I would advise on the danger I have discovered and nothing more.
What happens after must be determined by you, as High Druid, and by the
Council.  I do not seek to return as a member of the Council.  Simply
hear me out, then send me on my way.

Athabasca smiled.  "You still believe so strongly in yourself.

I am impressed.  I admire you for your resolve, Bremen, but I think you
misguided and deceived.  Still, I am but one voice and not of a mind to
make a decision on this by myself.  Wait here with Captain Lock.  I
will call the Council together and ask it to consider your request.
Will it choose to hear you or not?  I shall leave it to them."

He rapped sharply on the desk and the narrow back door to the chamber
opened.  Caerid Lock came through and saluted.

"Stay with our guest," Athabasca ordered, "until I return."

Then he went out through the wide double doors at the front of the
chamber without looking back.

ATHABASCA WAS GONE for almost four hours.  Bremen sat on a bench by one
of the tall windows and stared out into the hazy light of the late
afternoon.  He waited patiently, knowing he could do little else.
He talked with Caerid Lock for a time, catching up on the news of the
Council's work, discovering that it progressed in much the same way as
it had for years, that little changed, that almost nothing was
accomplished.  It was de pressing to hear, and Bremen soon gave up on
pursuing his inquiries.  He thought of what he would say to the Council
and how its members might respond, but he knew in his heart it was an
exercise in futility.  He realized now why Athabasca had agreed to see
him.  The High Druid believed it better to admit him and hear him out
than to dismiss him out of hand, better to give some semblance of
consideration than to give none at all.  But the decision was already
made.  He would not be listened to.  He was outcast, and he would not
be allowed back in.
Not for any reason, no matter how persuasive, how compelling.
He was a dangerous man, in Athabasca's mind-in the minds of others,
too, he supposed.  He used magic with disdain.  He played with fire.
There could be no listening to such a man.
Not ever.

It was sad.  He had come to warn them, but they were be yond his
reach. He could feel it.  He waited now only to have it confirmed.

Confirmation arrived swiftly on the heels of the four hours' close.
Athabasca came through the doors with the brusque atti tude of a man
with better things to get on to.  "Bremen," he greeted and dismissed
him at the same time.  He paid no attention to Caerid Lock at all, did
not ask him to stay or go.  "The Council has considered your request
and rejected it.  If you would like to submit it again in writing, it
will be given to a committee to consider."  He sat down at his desk
with a sheaf of papers and began studying them.  The Eilt Druin
glimmered brightly as it swung against his chest.  "We are committed to
a course of noninvolvement with the Races, Bremen.  What you seek would
violate that rule.  We must stay out of politics and interracial
conflicts.  Your speculations are too broad and entirely
unsubstantiated.  We cannot give them credence."

He looked up.  "You may supply yourself with whatever you need to
continue your journey.  Good luck to you.  Captain Lock, please escort
our guest back to the front gates."

He looked down again.  Bremen stared wordlessly, stunned in spite of
himself at the abruptness of his dismissal.  When Athabasca continued
to ignore him, he said quietly, "You are a fool."

Then he turned and followed Caerid back through the narrow door into
the passageway that had brought them.  Behind him, he heard the door
close and lock.

CHAPTER 3

CAERID LOCK AND BREMEN DESCENDED the back stairs in silence, their
footsteps echoing in lonely cadence through the twisting passageway.
Behind them, the light from the landing and the door leading to the
High Druid Athabasca's chambers receded into blackness.  Bremen fought
to contain the bitterness that welled up within him.
He had called Athabasca a fool, but maybe he was the real fool.
Kinson had been right.  Coming to Paranor had been a waste of time.
The Druids were not prepared to listen to their outcast brother.
They were not interested in his wild imaginings, in his attempts to
insinuate himself back into their midst.  He could see them turning to
one another with amused, sarcastic glances as the High Druid informed
them of his request.  He could see them shaking their heads in
resentment.  His arrogance had blinded him to the size of the obstacle
that he was required to surmount in order to gain their belief.  If he
could just speak to them, they would listen, he had thought.  But he
had not gotten the chance to do even that much.  His confidence had
undone him.  His pride had tricked him.  He had miscalculated badly.

Still, he countered, trying to salvage something from his failed
effort, he had been right to try.  At least he did not have to live
with the guilt and pain he might feel later for having done nothing.
Nor could he be certain of the result of his effort.  Some good might
yet come of his appearance, a small change in events and attitudes that
he would not be able to discern until much later.  It was wrong to
dismiss his effort out of hand.  Kinson might have been right about the
end result, but neither of them could know that nothing would come of
this visit.

"I am sorry you were not allowed to speak, Bremen," Caerid said
quietly, glancing over his shoulder.

Bremen looked up, aware how depressed he must seem.  This was no time
for self-indulgence.  He had lost his chance to speak directly to the
Council, but there were other tasks to be completed before he was
dismissed from the Keep forever, and he must see to them.

"Caerid, would there be time for me to visit Kahle Rese be fore
leaving?"  he asked.  "I need only a few moments."

They stopped on the stairs and regarded each other, the frail-looking
old man and the weathered Elf.  "You were told to gather what you
needed for your journey," Caerid Lock Observed.  "There was nothing
said about what those needs might be.  I think a short visit would be
in order."

Bremen smiled.  "I will never forget your efforts on my be half,
Caerid.  Never."

The other man gave a short wave of dismissal.  "They were nothing,
Bremen.  Come."

They continued along the stairs to a back passageway that took them
through several doors and down another flight of stairs.  All the time,
Bremen was thinking.  He had given his warning, for better or worse.
It would be ignored by most, but those who would harken to it must be
given what chance there was to survive the foolishness of the others.
In addition, some effort must be made to protect the Keep.
There was not a great deal he could do in the face of the Warlock
Lord's power, but he must do what little he could.  He would begin with
Kahle Rese, his oldest and most trusted friend-even though he knew that
once again he faced almost certain disappointment in his intended
effort.

When they reached the doorway that led into the main hall, just a short
distance from the libraries where Kahle spent his days, Bremen turned
again to Caerid.

"Will you do me one more favor?"  he asked the Elf.  "Will you summon
Risca and Tay Trefenwyd to speak with me?  Have them wait in the
passageway until I finish my visit with Kahle.
I will meet them there.  I give you my word I will go nowhere else and
do nothing to violate the terms of my visit."

Caerid looked away.  "Your word is not necessary, Bremen.  It never has
been.  Have your visit with Kahle.  I'll bring the other two and meet
you here."

He turned and went back up the stairs into the gloom.  Bre men thought
how lucky he was to be able to count Caerid among his friends.
He remembered Caerid as a young man, still learning his craft, but
intense and steady even then.  Caerid had come from Arborlon and stayed
on past his initial appointment, committed to the Druid cause.  It was
rare for a non-Druid to take such an interest.  He wondered if Caerid
would do so again, if given the chance to live his life over.

He stepped through the door into the corridor beyond and turned right.
The hall was arched and framed with great wooden beams that gleamed
with polish and wax.  Tapestries and paintings hung from the castle
walls.  Pieces of ancient furniture and old armor occupied protected
space in small alcoves, lit by slow-burning candles.  Age and time were
captured within these walls where nothing changed but the hours of the
day and the passing of the seasons.  There was a sense of permanence
to Paranor, the oldest and strongest fortress in the Four Lands, the
guardian of its givers of knowledge, the keeper of its most precious
artifacts and tomes.  What few advancements had been made coming out of
the wilderness of the Great Wars had originated here.
Now it was all in danger of ending, of being forever lost, and only he
seemed aware of it.

He reached the library doors, opened them quietly, and stepped inside.
The room was small for a library, but it was crammed with books.  There
were few books to be found since the destruction of the old world, and
most of those had been compiled by the Druids in the last two hundred
years, painstakingly recorded by hand from the memories and
observations of the handful of men and women who still remembered.
Almost all were stored here, in this room and the next, and Kahle Rese
was the Druid responsible for their safekeeping.  All had value, but
none more so than the Druid Histories, the books that chronicled the
results of the Council's efforts to recover the lost knowledge of
science and magic from the centuries before the Great Wars, of its
attempts at uncovering the secrets of power that had given the old
world the greatest of its advancements, and of its detailing of all
possibilities however remote concerning devices and formulas, talismans
and conjuring, reasoning and deductions that might one day find
understanding.

The Druid Histories.  These were the books that mattered most to
Bremen.  These were the books that he intended to save.

Kahle Rese was standing on a ladder arranging a worn and shabby
collection of leather-bound tomes when Bremen entered.  He turned and
started when he saw who was standing there.  He was a small, wiry man,
hunched slightly with age, but nimble enough to climb still.  There was
dust on his hands, and the sleeves of his robe were rolled up and
tied.
His blue eyes blinked and crinkled as a smile lit his face.  Quickly he
scurried down the ladder and came over.  He held out his hands and
gripped Bremen's own tightly.

"Old friend," he greeted.  His narrow face was like a bird's, eyes sharp
and bright, nose a hooked beak, mouth a tight line, and beard a small,
wispy tuft on his pointed chin.

"it is good to see you, Kahle," Bremen told him.  "I have missed you.

Our conversations, our puzzling through of the world's mysteries, our
assessments of life.  Even our poor attempt at jokes.  You must remember."

"I do, Bremen, I do."  The other laughed.  "Well, here you are.

"For a moment only, I'm afraid.  Have you heard?"

Kahle nodded.  The smile slipped from his face.  "You came to give
warning of the Warlock Lord.  Athabasca gave it for you.  You asked to
speak to the Council.  Athabasca spoke for you.  Took rather a lot on
himself, didn't he?  But he has his reasons, as we both know.  In any
case, the Council voted against you.  A few argued quite vigorously on
your behalf.  Risca, for one.  Tay Trefenwyd.  One or two more."  He
shook his head.  "I am afraid I remained silent."

"Because it did no good for you to speak," Bremen said helpfully.

But Kahle shook his head.  "No, Bremen.  Because I am too old and tired
for causes.  I am comfortable here among my books and seek only to be
left alone."  He blinked and looked Bremen over carefully.  "Do you
believe what you say about the Warlock Lord?  Is he real?  Is he the 
Druid, Brona?"

Bremen nodded.  "He is what I have told Athabasca and a great threat to
Paranor and the Council.  He will come here eventually, Kahle.  When he
does, he will destroy everything."

"Perhaps," Kahle acknowledged with a shrug.  "Perhaps not.
Things do not always happen as we expect.  You and I were allways
agreed on that, Bremen."

"But this time, I'm afraid, there is little chance they will happen
any other way than I have forecast.  The Druids spend too much time
within their walls.  They cannot see with objectivity what is happening
without.  It limits their vision."

Kahle smiled.  "We have our eyes and ears, and we learn more than you
suspect.  Our problem is not one of ignorance; it is one of
complacency.  We are too quick to accept the life we know and not quick
enough to embrace the life we only imagine.  We think that events must
proceed as we dictate, and that no other voice will ever have meaning
but ours."

Bremen put his hand on the small man's narrow shoulder.
"You were always the best reasoned of us all.  Would you consider
making a short journey with me?"

"You seek to rescue me from what you perceive to be my fate, do you?"
The other man laughed.  "Too late for that, Bremen.  My fate is tied
irrevocably to these walls and the writings of these few books I
manage.  I am too old and too set in my ways to give up a lifetime's
work.  This is all I know.  I am one of those Druids I described, old
friend-hidebound and moribund to the last.  What happens to Paranor
happens also to me."

Bremen nodded.  He had thought Kahle Rese would say as much, but he had
needed to ask.  "I wish you would reconsider.
There are other walls to live within and other libraries to tend."

"Are there?"  Kahle asked, arching one eyebrow.  "Well, they wait for
other hands, I suspect.  I belong here."

Bremen sighed.  "Then help me in another way, Kahle.  I pray I am wrong
in my assessment of the danger.  I pray I am mistaken in what I think
will occur.  But if I am not, and if the War lock Lord comes to
Paranor, and if the gates should not hold against him, then someone
must act to save the Druid Histories."  He paused.  "Are they still
kept separate within the adjoining room-behind the bookcase door?"

"Still and always," Kahle advised.

Bremen reached into his robes and withdrew a small leather pouch.
"Within is a special dust," he told his friend.  "If the War lock Lord
should come within these walls, throw it across the Druid Histories,
and they will be sealed away.  The dust will hide them.  The dust will
keep them safe."

He handed the pouch to Kahle, who accepted it reluctantly.
The wizened Druid held the pouch out in the cup of his hand as if to
measure its worth.  "Elf magic?"  he asked, and Bremen nodded.
"Some form of faerie dust, I suppose.  Some form of old world
sorcery."
He grinned mischievously.  "Do you know what would happen to me if
Athabasca found this in my possession?"

"I do," Bremen replied solemnly.  "But he won't find it, will he?"

Kahle regarded the pouch thoughtfully for a moment, then tucked it into
his robes.  "No," he agreed, "he won't."  His brow furrowed.  "But I am
not sure I can promise I will use it, no matter what the cause.
I am like Athabasca in this one matter, Bre men.  I am opposed to
involvement of the magic in the carrying out of my duties.  I deplore
magic as a means to any end.  You know that.  I have made it plain
enough before, haven't I?"

"You have."

"And still you ask me to do this?"

"I must.  Who else can I turn to?  Who else can I trust?  I leave it to
your good judgment, Kahle.  Use the dust only if circumstances are so
dire that the lives of all are threatened and no one will be left to
care for the books.  Do not let them fall into the hands of those who
will misuse the knowledge.  That would be worse than any imagined
result of employing magic."

Kahle regarded him solemnly, then nodded.  "It would, in deed.
Very well.  I will keep the dust with me and use it should the worst
come to pass.  But only then."

They faced each other in the ensuing silence, all the words spoken,
nothing left to say.

"You should reconsider your decision to come with me, Bremen tried a
final time.

Kahle smiled, a brittle twist of his thin mouth.  "You asked me to come
with you once before, when you chose to leave Paranor and pursue your
studies of the magic elsewhere, I told you then I would never leave,
that this is where I belong.  Nothing has changed."

Bremen felt a bitter helplessness creep through him, and he smiled
quickly to keep it from showing.  "Then goodbye, Kahle Rese, my oldest
and greatest friend.  Keep well."

The small man embraced him, hands gripping the old man's slender frame
and holding fast.  "Goodbye, Bremen."  His voice was a whisper.
"This one time, I hope you are wrong."

Bremen nodded wordlessly.  Then he turned and went out the library door
without looking back.  He found himself wishing that things could be
different, knowing they could not.  He moved swiftly down the hallway
to the door that opened into the back stairs passageway that had
brought him.  He found himself looking at the tapestries and artifacts
as if he had never seen them-or perhaps as if he would never see them
again.  He felt some part of himself slipping away, just as it had when
he left Paranor the first time.  He did not like to admit it, but this
was still more home to him than any other place, and as it was with all
homes, it laid claim to him in ways that could not be judged or
measured.

He went through the door into the near darkness of the landing beyond
and found himself face-to-face with Risca and Tay Trefenwyd.

Tay came forward immediately and embraced him.  "Welcome home, Druid,"
he said, clapping the old man on the back.

Tay was an Elf of unusual height and size, lanky and rather
awkward-looking, as if he were constantly in danger of tripping over
his own feet.  His face was decidedly Elven, but his head seemed to
have been grafted onto his body by mistake.  He was young still, even
with fifteen years of service at Paranor, his face smooth and
clean-shaven.  He had blond hair and blue eyes, and always bore a ready
smile for everyone.

"You look well, Tay," the old man replied, giving the other a quick
smile in return.  "Life at Paranor agrees with you."

"Seeing you again agrees with me more," the other declared.
"When are we leaving?"

"Leaving?"

"Bremen, don't be coy.  Leaving for wherever it is you are going.
Risca and I are decided.  Even if you hadn't called us to meet with
you, we would have caught up with you on your way out.  We have had
enough of Athabasca and the Council."

"You were not there to witness their performance," Risca sneered,
shouldering into the light.  "A travesty.  They gave your request the
same consideration they would an invitation to be come a victim of the
plague!  There was no debate allowed or reasoning undertaken!
Athabasca presented your request in such a manner that there was no
doubt where he stood.  Others backed him up, sycophants all.  Tay and I
did our best to condemn his machinations, but we were shouted down.  I
have had enough of their politics, enough of their shortsightedness.
If you say the Warlock Lord exists, then he exists.  If you say he is
coming to Paranor, then come he will.  But I will not be here to greet
him.  Let those others stand in my place.  Shades, how can they be such
fools?"

Risca was all brawn and heat, and Bremen smiled in spite of himself.
"So you gave a good account of yourselves on my behalf?"

"We were small whispers in a windstorm," Tay laughed.  His arms lifted
and fell helplessly within his dark robes.  "Risca is right.
Politics rule at Paranor.  They have since Athabasca became First
Druid.  You should have held that position, Bremen, not him."

"You could have been First Druid, if you had wanted to be," Risca
pointed out irritably.  "You should have insisted."

"No," said Bremen, "I would not have done the job well, my friends.  I
was never one for administration and management.  I was meant to seek
out and recover what was lost, and I could not do that from the high
tower.  Athabasca was a better choice than I."

"Hogwash!"  snapped Risca.  "He has never been a good choice for
anything.  He resents you even now.  He knows that his office was yours
for the asking, and he has never forgiven you for that.  Nor that you
could walk away from it.  Your freedom threatens his reliance on order
and obedience.  He would have us all placed carefully on a shelf and
taken down when it suits his purpose.  He would dictate our lives as if
we were children.  You escaped his reach by leaving Paranor, and he
will not forgive you that."

Bremen shrugged.  "Ancient history.  I regret only that he would not
pay greater heed to my warning.  I think the Keep in real danger.
The Warlock Lord comes this way, Risca.  He will not step around
Paranor and the Druids.  He will grind them beneath his army's
boots."

"What are we to do?"  Tay pressed, glancing about as if afraid someone
might be listening.  "We have continued practicing our magic, Bremen.
Each of us, Risca and I, in our own way, employing our own
disciplines.  We knew you would come back for us someday.  We knew the
magic would be needed."

Bremen nodded, pleased.  He had relied on these two above all the
others to pursue their conjuring skills.  They were not as learned or
practiced as he, but they were able enough.  Risca was the weapons
master, skilled in the war arts, in the study of arms.  Tay Trefenwyd
was a student of the elements, of the forces that created and
destroyed, of the balance of earth, air, fire, and water in the
evolution of life.  Each was an adept, just as he, capable of summoning
magic when called upon to protect and defend.  The practice of magic
was forbidden within the walls of Paranor, except under strict
supervision.  Conjuring was undertaken almost exclusively on a basis of
need.  Experimentation was discouraged and often punished if discovered.
The Druids lived in the shadow of their own history and the dark memory
of Brona and his followers.  They had been rendered moribund by guilt
and indecision.  They could not seem to understand that their
ill-conceived course of action threatened to swallow them whole.

"You were right in your assumptions," he told them.  "I relied on you
not to abandon the magic.  And I do want you to come with me.  I will
need your skills and your strength in the days ahead.  Tell me, are
there any others we can call upon?  Others, who have accepted the need
for magic's use?"

Tay and Risca exchanged a brief glance.  "None," said the latter.
"You must make do with us."

"You shall do fine," Bremen advised, his aged face crinkling with the
smile he forced upon himself.  Only these two to join Kinson and
himself!  Only these two against so many!  He sighed.  Well, he should
have expected as much, he supposed.
"I am sorry I must ask this of you," he said, and genuinely meant it.

Risca snorted.  "I should feel slighted if you did not.  I am bored to
tears of Paranor and her old men.  No one cares for the practice of my
craft.  No one follows in my footsteps.  I am an anachronism to all.
Tay feels as I do.  We would have left long ago if we had not agreed to
wait for you."

Tay nodded.  "it is no cause for sadness to find you in need of
traveling companions, Bremen.  We are quite ready."

Bremen took each by the hand and thanked him.  "Gather what you would
carry with you and meet me by the front gates tomorrow morning.
I will tell you of our journey then.  Tonight, I will sleep without in
the forest with my companion, Kinson Ravenlock.  He has accompanied me
these two years past and proven invaluable.  He is a Tracker and a
scout, a Borderman of great courage and resolve."

"if he travels with you, he needs no other recommendation," said Tay.
"We will leave now.  Caerid Lock waits for you some where on the stairs
below.  He asks that you descend until you come upon him."  Tay paused
meaningfully.  "Caerid would be a good man to have with us, Bremen."

The old man nodded.  "I know.  I will ask him to come.  Rest well.
I will see you both at sunrise."

The Dwarf and the Elf slipped through the passageway door and closed it
softly behind them, leaving Bremen alone on the landing.  He stood
there for a moment, thinking of what he must do next.  Silence
surrounded him, deep and pervasive within the fortress walls.  Time
slipped away.  He did not require much of it, but he would have to be
quick in any case.

And he would need Caerid Lock's cooperation.

He hurried down the stairway, intent on his plan, mulling over the
details in his mind.  The musty smell of the close passage assailed
his nostrils, causing his nose to wrinkle.  Elsewhere, in the main
corridors and stairways of the Keep, the air would be clean and warm,
carried up from the fire pit that heated the castle throughout the
year.  Dampers and vents controlled the airflow, but none of these were
present in hidden passages like this one.

He found the Captain of the Druid Guard two landings farther down,
standing alone in the shadows.  He came forward at Bremen's approach,
his worn face impassive.

"I thought you might visit more comfortably with your friends alone,"
he said.

"Thank you," Bremen replied, touched at the other's consideration.
"But we would have you be one of us, Caerid.  We leave at sunrise.
Will you come?"

Caerid smiled faintly.  "I thought that might be your plan.
Risca and Tay are eager enough to depart Paranor-that's no secret."
He shook his head slowly.  "But as for me, Bremen, my duty lies here.
Especially if what you believe is true.  Someone must protect the
Druids of Paranor, even from themselves.  I am best suited.  The Guard
is mine, all handpicked, all trained under my command.  It would not do
for me to abandon them now."

Bremen nodded.  "I suppose not.  Still, it would be good to have you
with us."

Caerid almost smiled.  "It would be good to come.  But the choice is
made."

"Then keep careful watch within these walls, Caerid Lock."
Bremen fixed him with his gaze.  "Be certain of the men you lead.
Are there Trolls among them?  Are there any who might betray you?"

The Captain of the Druid Guard shook his head firmly.
"None.  All will stand with me to the death.  Even the Trolls.  I would
bet my life on it, Bremen."

Bremen smiled gently.  "And so you do."  He glanced about momentarily
as if seeking someone.  "He will come, Caerid-the Warlock Lord with his
winged minions and mortal followers and perhaps creatures summoned out
of some dark pit.  He will descend on Paranor and attempt to crush
you.
You must watch your back, my friend."

The seasoned veteran nodded.  "He'll find us ready."  He held the
other's gaze.  "It's time to take you back down to the gates.
Would you like to take some food with you?"

Bremen nodded.  "I would."  Then he hesitated.  "I almost for got.
Would it be possible for me to have one final word with Kahle Rese?  I
am afraid we left each other under rather strained circumstances, and I
would like to correct that before I go away.
Could you give me just a few minutes more, Caerid?  I will come right
back."

The Elf considered the request silently for a moment, then nodded.
"Very well.  But hurry, please.  I have already stretched Athabasca's
instructions to their limit."

Bremen smiled disarmingly and went back up the stairs once more.
He hated lying to Caerid Lock, but there was no reasonable alternative
open to him.  The Captain of the Druid Guard would never have been able
to sanction what he was about to do under any circumstances, friend or
no.  Bremen ascended two levels, passed through a doorway into a
secondary passage, quickly followed it to its end, then went through
yet another door to a second set of stairs, this one more narrow and
steep than the first.  He went quietly and with great care.  He could
not afford to be discovered now.  What he was about to do was
forbidden.  If he was observed, Athabasca might well cast him into the
deepest dungeon and leave him there for all time.

At the head of the narrow stairs he stopped before a massive wooden
door secured by locks made fast with chains as thick as his aged
wrists.  He touched the locks carefully, one after the other, and with
small snicks they fell open.  He released the chains from their
securing rings, pushed at the door, and watched with a mix of relief
and trepidation as it swung slowly away.

He stepped through then and found himself on a platform high up within
the Druid's Keep.  Below, the walls fell away into a black pit that was
said to core all the way to the center of the earth.  No one had ever
descended to its bottom and returned.
No one had ever been able to cast a light deep enough to see what was
down there.  The Druid Well, it was called.  It was a place into which
the discards of time and fate had been cast-of magic and science, of
the living and the dead, of mortal and immortal.  It had been there
since the time of faerie.  Like the Hadeshorn in the Valley of Shale,
it was one of the few doorways that connected the worlds of life and
afterlife.  There were tales of how it had been used over the years and
of the terrible things it had swallowed.  Bremen had no interest in the
tales.  What mattered was that he had determined long ago that the pit
was a shaft that channeled magic from realms no living soul had ever
visited, and within the blackness that cloaked its secrets lay power
that no creature would dare to challenge.

Standing at its edge, he lifted his arms and began to chant.
His voice was soft and steady, his conjuring studied and deliberate.
He did not look down, even when he heard the stirrings and the sighs
from within the depths.  He moved his hands slightly, weaving out the
symbols that commanded obedience.
He spoke the words without hesitation, for even the slightest waver
could bring the spell to an end and doom his effort.

When he was finished, he reached into his robes and with drew a pinch
of greenish powder, which he cast into the void.
The powder sparkled with wicked intent as it fluttered on the air
currents, seeming to grow in size, to multiply until the few grains had
turned to thousands.  Momentarily, they hung suspended, shining in the
near black, and then they winked out and were gone.

Bremen stepped back quickly, breathing hard, feeling his courage fail
as he leaned against the cold stone of the tower wall.  He had not the
strength that he once had.  He had not the resolve.  He closed his eyes
and waited for the stirrings and the sighs to fade back into silence.
Use of the magic required such effort!  He wished he were young
again. He wished he had a young man's body and determination.
But he was old and failing, and it was pointless to wish for the
impossible.  He must make do with the body and determination he had.

Something scraped on the stone walls below him-a rasp of claws perhaps,
or of scales.

Climbing to see if the spell caster was still there!

 Collecting himself, Bremen stumbled back through the door and pushed it closed
tightly behind him.  His heart still beat wildly, and his face was
coated in a sheen of sweat.  Leave this place, a harsh voice whispered
from somewhere beyond the door, from far down in the pit.  Leave it
now!

Hands shaking, Bremen resecured the locks and chains.

Then he scurried back down the narrow stairs and through the empty
passageways of the Keep to rejoin Caerid Lock.

CHAPTER 4

BREMEN AND KINSON RAVENLOCK SPENT the night in the forest some distance
back from Paranor and the Druids.
They found a grove of spruce that provided reasonable concealment, wary
even here of the winged hunters that prowled the night skies.
They ate their dinner cold, a little bread, cheese, and spring apples
washed down with ale, and talked over the day's events.  Bremen
revealed the results of his attempts to address the Druid Council and
reported his conver sations with those he had spoken to within the
Keep.  Kinson confined himself to sober nods and muttered grunts of
disappointment and had the presence of mind and good manners not to
tell the older man, when advised of his failure to convince Athabasca,
that he had told him so.

They slept then, worn from the long trek down out of the Streleheim and
the many nights spent sleepless before.  They took turns keeping watch,
not trusting even the close presence of the Druids to keep them safe.
Neither really believed he would be safe anywhere for some time to
come.  The Warlock Lord moved where he wished these days, and his
hunters were his eyes in every corner of the Four Lands.
Bremen, standing watch first, thought he sensed something at one point,
a presence that nudged at his warning instincts from somewhere close
at hand.  It was midnight, he was nearing the end of his duty and
beginning to think of sleep, and he almost missed it.  But nothing
showed itself, and the prickly feeling that ran the length of his spine
faded almost as quickly as it had come.

Bremen's sleep was deep and dreamless, but he was awake before sunrise
and thinking of what he must do next in his efforts to combat the
threat of the Warlock Lord when Kinson appeared out of the shadows on
cat's feet and knelt next to him.

"There is a girl here to see you," he said.

Bremen nodded wordlessly and rose to a sitting position.
The night was fading into paler shades of gray, and the sky east was
faintly silver along the edge of the horizon.  The forest about them
felt empty and abandoned, a vast dark labyrinth of shaggy boughs and
canopied limbs that enclosed and sealed like a tomb.

"Who is she?"  the old man asked.

Kinson shook his head.  "She didn't give her name.  She appears to be
one of the Druids.  She wears their robe and insignia."

"Well, well," Bremen mused, rising now to his feet.  His muscles ached
and his joints felt stiff and unwieldy.

"She offered to wait, but I knew you would be awake already."

Bremen yawned.  "I grow too predictable for my own good.
A girl, you say?  Not many women, let alone girls, serve with the
Druids."

"I didn't think they did either.  In any case, she seems to offer no
threat, and she is quite intent on speaking with you."

Kinson sounded indifferent to the outcome of the matter, meaning that
he thought it was probably a waste of time.  Bremen straightened his
rumpled robes.  They could do with a washing.  For that matter, so
could he.  "Did you see anything of the winged hunters on your
watch?"

Kinson shook his head.  "But I felt their presence.  They prowl these
forests, make no mistake.  Will you speak with her?"

Bremen looked at him.  "The girl?  Of course.  Where is she?"

Kinson led him from the shelter of the spruce to a small clearing less
than fifty feet away.  The girl stood there, a dark and silent
presence.  She wasn't very big, rather short and slightly built,
wrapped in her robes, the hood pulled up to conceal her face.  She
didn't move as he came into view, but stood there waiting for him to
approach first.

Bremen slowed.  It interested him that she had found them so easily.
They had deliberately camped well back in the trees to make it
difficult for anyone to discover them while they slept.  Yet this girl
had done so-at night and without the benefit of any light but that of
stars and moon where it penetrated the heavy canopy of limbs.  She was
either a very good Tracker or she had the use of magic.

"Let me speak with her alone," he told Kinson.

He crossed the clearing to where she stood, limping slightly as his
joints attempted to unlimber.  She lowered the hood now so that he
could see her.  She was very young, but not a girl as Kinson had
thought.  She had close-cut black hair and enormous dark eyes.  Her
features were delicate and her face smooth and guileless.  She was
indeed dressed in Druid robes, and she wore the raised hand and burning
torch of the Eilt Druin sewn on her breast.

"My name is Mareth," she told him as he came up to her, and she held
out her hand.

Bremen took it in his own.  Her hand was small, but her grip was strong
and the skin of her palm hardened by work.
"Mareth," he greeted.

She took back her hand.  Her gaze was steady and held his own, her
voice low and compelling.  "I am a Druid apprentice, not yet accepted
into the order, but allowed to study in the Keep.  I came here ten
months ago as a Healer.  I came from several years of study in the
Silver River country, then two years in Storlock.  I began my study of
healing when I was thirteen.
My family lives in the Southland, below Leah."

Bremen nodded.  If she had been allowed to study healing at Storlock,
she must have talent.  "What do you wish of me, Mareth?"  he asked her
gently.

The dark eyes blinked.  "I want to come with you."

He smiled faintly.  "You don't even know where I'm going."

She nodded.  "It doesn't matter.  I know what cause you serve.  I know
that you take the Druids Risca and Tay Trefenwyd with you.  I want to
be part of your company.  Wait.  Before you say anything, hear me
out.
I will leave Paranor whether you take me with you or not.  I am in
disfavor here, with Athabasca in particular.  The reason I am in
disfavor is that I choose to pur sue the study of magic when it has
been forbidden me.  I am to be a Healer only, it has been decided.  I
am to use the skills and learning the Council feels appropriate."

For a woman, Bremen thought she might add, the phrase hidden in the
words she spoke.

"I have learned all that they have to teach me," she continued.
"They will not admit this, but it is so.  I need a new teacher.
I need you.  You know more about the magic than anyone.  You understand
its nuances and demands, the complications of employing it, the
difficulties of assimilating it into your life.  No one else has your
experience.  I would like to study with you."

He shook his head slowly.  "Mareth, where I go, no one who is not
experienced should venture."

"It will be dangerous?"  she asked.

"Even for me.  Certainly for Risca and Tay, who at least know something
of the magic's use.  But especially for you."

"No," she said quietly, clearly ready for this argument.  "It will not
be as dangerous for me as you think.  There is some thing about me that
I haven't told you yet.  Something that no one knows here at Paranor,
although I think Athabasca suspects.
I am not entirely unskilled.  I have use of magic beyond that which I
would master from study.  I have magic born to me."

Bremen stared.  "Innate magic?"

"You do not believe me," she said at once.

In truth, he did not.  Innate magic was unheard of.  Magic was acquired
through study and practice, not inherited.  At least, not in these
times.  It had been different in the time of faerie, of course, when
magic was as much a part of a creature's inherited character as the
makeup of his blood and tissue.  But no one in the Four Lands for as
long as anyone could remember had been born with magic.

No one human.

He continued to stare at her.

"The difficulty with my magic, you see," she continued, "is that I
cannot always control it.  It comes and goes in spurts of emotion, in
the rise and fall of my temperature, in the fits and starts of my
thinking, and with a dozen other vicissitudes I cannot entirely
manage.
I can command it to me, but then sometimes it does what it will."

She hesitated, and for the first time her gaze fell momentarily before
lifting again to meet his own.  When she spoke, he thought he detected
a hint of desperation in her low voice.  "I must be wary of everything
I do.  I am constantly hiding bits and pieces of myself, keeping
careful watch over my behavior, my reactions, even my most innocent
habits."  She compressed her lips.  "I cannot continue to live like
this.  I came to Paranor for help.  I have not found it.  Now I am
turning to you."

She paused and then added, "Please."

There was a poignancy in that single word that surprised him.  For just
a moment she lost her composure, the iron-willed, hardened appearance
she had perfected in order to protect her self.  He didn't know yet if
he believed her he thought that maybe he did.  But he was certain that
her need, whatever its nature, was very real.

"I will bring something useful to your company if you take me with
you," she said quietly.  "I will be a faithful ally.  I will do what is
required of me.  If you should be forced to stand against the Warlock
Lord or his minions, I will stand with you."  She leaned forward in a
barely perceptible motion, little more than an inclining of her dark
head.  "My magic," she confided in a small voice, "is very powerful."

He reached for her hand and held it between his own.  "if you will
agree to wait until after sunrise, I will give this matter some
thought," he told her.  "I will have to confer with the others, with
Tay and Risca when they arrive."

 She nodded and looked past him.
"And your big friend?"

"Yes, with Kinson also."

"But he has no skill with magic, does he?  Like the rest of you?"

"No, but he is skilled in other ways.  You can sense that about him,
can you?  That he is without the use of magic?"

"Yes."

"Tell me.  Did you use magic to find us here in this concealment?"

She shook her head.  "No.  It was instinct.  I could sense you.
I have always been able to do that."  She stared at him, catching the
look in his eye.  "Is that a form of magic, Bremen?"

"it is.  Not a magic you can identify as easily as some, but magic
nonetheless.  Innate magic, I might add-absent acquired skill."

"I have no acquired skill," she said quietly, folding her arms into her
robes as if she were suddenly cold.

He studied her for a moment, thinking.  "Sit there, Mareth," he said
finally, pointing to a spot behind her.  "Wait with me for the
others."

She did as she was asked.  Moving to a patch of grass that had grown up
where the trees did not shut out the sun, she folded her legs beneath
her and seated herself in the huddle of her robes, a small dark
statue.
Bremen watched her for a moment, then moved back across the clearing
to where Kinson waited.

"What did she want?"  the Borderman asked, turning away with him to
walk to the edge of the trees.

"She has asked to come with us," Bremen answered.

Kinson arched one eyebrow speculatively.  "Why would she want to do
that?"

Bremen stopped and faced him.  "She hasn't told me yet."  He glanced
over to where she was seated.  "She gave me reasons enough to consider
her request, but she is keeping something from me still."

"So you will refuse her?"

Bremen smiled.  "We will wait for the others and talk it over."

 The wait was a short one.  The sun rose out of the hills and crested the
forest rim minutes later, spilling light down into the shadowed
recesses, chasing back the last of the gloom.  Color returned to the
land, shades of green, brown, and gold amid the fading dark, and birds
came awake to sing their welcome to a new day.  Mist clung tenaciously
to the darker alcoves of the brightening woods, and through a low
curtain that yet masked the walls of Paranor walked Risca and Tay
Trefenwyd.  Both had abandoned their Druid robes in favor of traveling
clothes.  Both wore backpacks slung loosely across their broad
shoulders.  The Elf was armed with a longbow and a slender hunting
knife.  The Dwarf carried a short, two-handed broadsword, had a
battle-axe cinched at his waist, and bore a cudgel as thick as his
forearm.

They came directly to Bremen and Kinson without seeing Mareth.  As they
reached him, she rose once more and stood waiting.

Tay saw her first, glancing back at the unexpected movement caught
from the corner of one eye.  "Mareth," he said quietly.

Risca looked with him and grunted.

"She asks to travel with us," Bremen announced, forgoing any
preliminaries.  "She claims she might be useful to us."

Risca grunted again, shifting his bulk away from the girl.

"She is a child," he muttered.

"She is out of favor with Athabasca for trying to study magic," Tay
said, turning to look at her.  The smile on his Elven face broadened.
"She shows promise.  I like her determination.
Athabasca doesn't frighten her one bit."

Bremen looked at him.  "Can she be trusted?"


Tay laughed.  "What a strange question.  Trusted with what?
Trusted to do what?  There's some who say no one's to be trusted but
you and me, and I can only speak for me."  He paused and cocked his
head toward Kinson.  "Good morning, Borderman.  I am Tay Trefenwyd."

The Elf shook hands with Kinson then Risca made his greeting as
well.
Bremen apologized for forgetting introductions.  The Borderman said he
was used to it and shrugged meaningfully.

"Well, then, the girl."  Tay brought the conversation back around to
where it had started.  "I like her, but Risca is right.  She is very
young.  I don't know if I want to spend my time looking after her."

Bremen pursed his thin lips.  "She doesn't seem to think you will have
to.  She claims to have use of magic."

Risca snorted this time.  "She is an apprentice.  She has been at
Paranor for less than three seasons.  How could she know anything?"

Bremen glanced at Kinson and saw that the Borderman had figured it
out.
"Notlikely, is it?"  he said to Risca.  "Well, give me your vote.
Does she come with us or not?"

"No," said Risca at once.

Kinson shrugged and shook his head in agreement.

"Tay?"  Bremen asked the Elf.

Tay Trefenwyd sighed reluctantly.  "No."

Bremen took a long moment to consider their response, then nodded.
"Well, even though you vote against her, I think she should come."
They stared at him.  His weathered face creased with a sudden smile.
"You should see yourselves!  All right then, let me explain.  For one
thing, there is something intriguing about her request that I failed
to mention.  She wishes to study with me, to learn about the magic.
She is willing to accept almost any conditions in order to do so.  She
is quite desperate about it.  She did not beg or plead, but the
desperation is mirrored in her eyes."

"Bremen .  . ."  Risca began.

"For another," the Druid continued, motioning the Dwarf into silence,
"she claims to have innate magic.  I think that perhaps she is telling
the truth.  If so, we might do well to discover its nature and put it
to good use.  After all, there are only the four of us otherwise."

"We are not so desperate that Risca began again.

"Oh, yes, we are, Risca," Bremen cut him short.  "We most certainly
are.  Four against the Warlock Lord, his winged hunters, his
netherworld minions, and the entire Troll nation-how much more
desperate could we be?  No one else at Paranor has offered to help
us.
Only Mareth.  I am not inclined to turn down anyone out of hand at this
point."

"You said earlier that she keeps secrets from you," Kinson pointed
out.
"That hardly inspires the trust you seek."

"We all keep secrets, Kinson," Bremen chided gently.  "There is nothing
strange in that.  Mareth barely knows me.  Why should she confide
everything in our first conversation?  She is being careful, nothing
more."

"I don't like it," Risca declared sullenly.  He leaned the heavy cudgel
against his massive thigh.  "She may have magic at her disposal and she
may even have the talent to use it.  But that doesn't change the fact
that we know almost nothing about her.
In particular, we don't know if we can depend on her.  I don't like
taking that kind of chance with my life, Bremen."

"Well, I think we should give her the benefit of the doubt Tay
countered cheerfully.  "We will have time to make up our minds about
her before there is need to test her courage.  There are things to be
said in her favor already.  We know she was chosen to apprentice with
the Druids-that alone speaks highly of her.  And she is a Healer,
Risca.  We might have need of her skills."

"Let her come," Kinson agreed grudgingly.  "Bremen has all ready made
his mind up anyway."

Risca frowned darkly.  His big shoulders
squared.  "Well, he may have made up his mind, but he hasn't
necessarily made up mine."  He rounded on Bremen and stared wordlessly
at the old man for a moment.  Tay and Kinson waited expectantly.
Bremen did not offer anything further.  He simply stood there.

In the end, it was Risca who backed down.  He simply shook his head,
shrugged, and turned away.  "You are the leader, Bremen.  Bring her
along if you like.  But don't expect me to wipe her nose."

"I will be sure to tell her that," Bremen advised with a wink to
Kinson, and beckoned the young woman over to join them.

THEY SET OUT SHORTLY AFTERWARD, a company of five, with Bre men
leading, Risca and Tay Trefenwyd at either shoulder, Kinson a step
behind, and Mareth trailing.  The sun was up now, cresting the Dragon's
Teeth east to light the heavily forested valley, and the skies were
bright and blue and cloudless.  The company traveled south, winding
along little-used trails and footpaths, across broad, calm streams, and
into the scrub covered foothills that lifted out of the woodlands to
the Kennon Pass.  By midday they were climbing out of the valley into
the pass, and the air had turned sharp and cool.  Looking back, they
could see the massive walls of Paranor where the Druid's Keep rested
high on its rocky promontory amid the old growth.
The sun's intense light gave the stone a flat, implacable cast amid the
wash of trees, a hub at the center of a vast wheel.
They glanced back on it, one after the other, lost in their separate
thoughts, remembering events past and years gone.  Only Mareth showed
no interest, her gaze turned deliberately forward, her small face an
expressionless mask.

Then they entered the Kennon, its rugged walls rising about them, great
slabs of stone split by the slow swing of time's axe, and Paranor was
lost from view.

Only Bremen knew where they were going, and he kept the information to
himself until they camped that night above the Mermidon, safely down
out of the pass and back within the sheltering forests below.  Kinson
had asked once when he was alone with the old man and Risca had asked
in front of every one, but Bremen had chosen not to respond.  His
reasons were his own, and he kept them that way, offering no
explanation to his followers.  No one chose to contest his decision.

But that night, after they had built their fire and cooked their food
(Kinson's first hot meal in weeks), Bremen revealed at last their
destination.

"I will tell you now where we are going," he advised quietly.
"We are traveling to the Hadeshorn."

They were seated about the small fire, their dinner finished, their
hands busy with other tasks.  Risca worked to sharpen the blade of his
broadsword.  Tay sipped from an ale skin and sketched pictures in the
dust.  Kinson worked a fresh length of leather stitching through one
boot where the sole was loosening.  Mareth sat apart and watched them
all with her strange, level gaze that took in everything and gave
nothing back.

There was a silence when Bremen finished, four heads lifting as one to
stare at him.  "I intend to speak with the spirits of the dead in an
effort to discover what it is that we must do to protect the Races.  I
will try to learn something of how we should proceed.  I will try to
discover our fates."

Tay Trefenwyd cleared his throat softly.  "The Hadeshorn is forbidden
to mortals.  Even Druids.  Its waters are poisonous.
One taste and you are dead."  He looked at Bremen thoughtfully, then
looked away again.  "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Bremen nodded.  "There is danger in visiting the Hadeshorn.
There is greater danger still in calling up the dead.  But I have
studied the magic that wards the netherworld and its portals into our
own, and I have traveled such roads as exist between the two and
returned alive."  He smiled at the Elf.  "I have journeyed far since
last we were together, Tay."

Risca grunted.  "I'm not sure I want to know my fate."

"Nor I," Kinson echoed.

"I will ask for whatever they will give me," Bremen advised.
"They will decide what we should know."

"You believe that the spirits will speak words that you can
understand?"  Risca shook his head.  "I didn't think it worked that
way."

"It doesn't," Bremen acknowledged.  He eased himself closer to the fire
and held out his hands to capture its warmth.  The night was cool, even
below the mountains.  "The dead, if they appear, offer visions, and the
visions speak for them.  The dead have no voices.  Not from the
netherworld.  Not unless .  . ."

He seemed to think better of what he was about to say and brushed the
matter aside with an impatient wave.  "The fact remains that the
visions will give voice to what the spirits would tell us-if they
choose to speak at all.  Sometimes, they do not even appear.  But we
must go to them and ask their help."

"You have done this before," said Mareth suddenly, making it a
statement of fact.

"Yes," the old man admitted.


Yes, thought Kinson Ravenlock, remembering.  For he had been there on
the last occasion, a terrifying night of thunder and lightning, of
rolling black clouds and torrents of rain, of steam hissing off the
surface of the lake and of voices calling out from the subterranean
chambers of death's mansion.  He had stood there at the rim of the
Valley of Shale and watched as Bremen had gone down to the water's edge
and called forth the spirits of the dead into weather that seemed made
for their eerie purpose.  What visions there were had not been his to
see.  But Bremen had seen them, and they had not been good.  His eyes
alone had revealed that much when finally he had climbed back out of
the valley at dawn.

"It will be all right," Bremen assured them, his smile faint and worn
within the creases of his shadowed face.

As they prepared for sleep, Kinson went to Mareth and bent down next to
her on one knee.  "Take this," he offered, handing her his travel
cloak.  "It will help ward off the night's chill."

She looked at him with those large, disturbing eyes and shook her
head.
"You need it as much as I do, Borderman.  I ask no special
consideration from you."

Kinson held her gaze without speaking for a moment.  "My name is Kinson
Ravenlock," he said quietly.

She nodded.  "I know your name."

"I stand the first watch and do not need the weight or warmth of the
cloak while I keep it.  No special consideration is being offered."

She seemed put off.  "I must stand watch, too," she insisted.

"You will.  Tomorrow.  Two of us each night."  He kept his temper
firmly in check.  "Now, will you take the cloak?"

She gave him a cool look, then accepted it.  "Thank you," she said, her
voice neutral.

He nodded, rose, and walked away, thinking to himself that it would be
a while before he offered her anything again.

The night was deeply still and breathtakingly beautiful, the strangely
purple heavens dotted thick with stars and a silvered quarter-moon.
Vast and depthless, free from clouds and empty of conflicting light,
the sky looked to have been swept by a great broom, the stars spread
like diamond chips across its velvet surface.
Thousands were visible, so many in some places that they seemed to run
together like spilled milk.  Kinson looked up at them and marveled.
Time eased away with the smoothness of glass.  Kinson listened for the
familiar sounds of forest life, but it was as if all who dwelled within
these woods were as awestruck as he and had no time for ordinary
pursuits.

He thought back to when he was a boy living in the border land
wilderness east and north of Varfleet in the shadow of the Dragon's
Teeth.  It was not so different for him even then.  At night, when his
parents and his brothers and sisters were asleep, he would lie awake
looking out at the sky, wondering at its size, thinking of all the
places it looked down upon that he had never been.  Sometimes he would
stand before the bedroom window, as if by moving closer he might see
more of what waited out there.  He had always known he would go away,
even while the others had begun the process of settling into more
sedentary lives.  They grew, married, had children, and moved into
their own homes.  They hunted, trapped, traded, and farmed in the
country in which they had been born.  But he only drifted, always with
one eye on that distant sky, always with a promise to himself that one
day he would see all of what lay beneath it.

He was still looking, even now, with more than thirty years of his life
behind him.  He was still searching for what he hadn't seen and didn't
know.  He thought that would never change.  He thought that if one day
it did, he would become a different man than he had ever imagined
being.

Midnight arrived, and with it Mareth.  She appeared unexpectedly from
out of the shadows, wrapped in Kinson's cloak, so light-footed that
anyone else might have missed her approach entirely.  Kinson turned to
greet her, surprised because he was expecting Bremen.

"I asked Bremen to give me his turn at watch," she explained when she
reached him.  "I did not want to be treated differently."

He nodded, saying nothing.

She took off the cloak and handed it to him.  She seemed small and
frail without it.  "I thought you should have this back for when you
sleep.  It's gotten cold.  The fire has died away to nothing, and it
might be best to leave it that way."

He accepted the cloak.  "Thank you."

"Have you seen anything?"

"No."

"The Skull Bearers will track us, won't they?"

How much did she know?  he wondered.  How much, of what they faced?
"Perhaps.  Did you sleep at all?"

She shook her head.  "I could not stop thinking."  Her huge eyes stared
off into the dark.  "I have been waiting for this for a long time."

"To come with us on this journey?"

"No."  She looked at him, surprised.  "To meet Bremen.  To learn from
him, if he will teach me."  She turned away quickly, as if she had said
too much.  "You had better sleep while you can.  I will keep watch
until morning.  Good night."

He hesitated, but there was nothing left to say.  He rose and walked
back to where the others were rolled into their cloaks about the ashes
of the fire.  He lay down with them and closed his eyes, trying hard to
make something of Mareth, then trying not to think of her at all.

But he did, and it was a long time before he slept.

CHAPTER 5

THEY ROSE BEFORE SUNRISE and walked east through the day until
sunset.
They passed along the base of the Dragon's Teeth above the Mermidon,
keeping back within the shadow of the mountains.  Bremen warned them
that they were at risk even there.  The Skull Bearers felt sure enough
of themselves to come down out of the Northland.
The Warlock Lord marched his armies east toward the Jannisson Pass,
which meant they probably intended to descend upon the Eastland.
If they were bold enough to invade the country of the Dwarves, they
certainly would not hesitate to venture into the Borderlands.

So they kept close watch of the skies and the darker valleys and rifts
of the mountains where the shadows left the rock cloaked in perpetual
night, and they did not take anything for granted as they journeyed
on.
But the winged hunters did not show themselves this day, and aside from
a few travelers glimpsed at a distance in the forests and plains south,
they saw no one.  They stopped to rest and to eat, but did not pause
otherwise, keeping a steady pace through the daylight hours.

By sunset they had reached the foothills leading up into the Valley of
Shale and the Hadeshorn.  They camped in a draw that faced back toward
the plains south and the winding blue ribbon of the Mermidon where it
branched east into the Rabb, the river gradually diminishing until it
died away into streams and ponds on the barren flats.  They cooked
vegetables and a rabbit that Tay had killed, and ate their dinner while
it was still light, the sun bleeding red and gold into the western
horizon.

Bremen told them they would go up into the mountains after midnight and
wait for the slow hours before sunrise when the spirits of the dead
could be summoned.

They kicked out the fire as night descended and rolled into their
cloaks to get what sleep they could.

"Do not worry so, Kinson," Bremen whispered to the Borderman once in
passing on seeing his face.

But the advice was wasted.  Kinson Ravenlock had been to the Hadeshorn
before and knew what to expect.

SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT, Bremen took them up into the foot hills
fronting the Dragon's Teeth where the Valley of Shale was nestled.
They climbed through the rocks on a night so black that they could
barely make out the person immediately ahead.
Clouds had moved in after sunset, thick and low and threatening, and
all signs of moon and stars had disappeared hours ago.
Bremen led the way cautiously, concerned for their well-being even
though the terrain they passed through was as familiar to him as the
back of his hand.  He did not speak to the others as they proceeded,
keeping his attention focused on the task at hand and the one that lay
ahead, intent on avoiding any mis steps either now or later.  For a
meeting with the dead required foresight and caution, a screwing up of
courage and a hardening of determination that would permit neither
hesitation nor doubt.  Once contact was made, even the smallest
distraction could be life-threatening.

It was still several hours before dawn when they reached their
destination.  They paused on the rim of the valley and stared down into
its broad, shallow bowl.  Crushed rock littered its sides, black and
glistening even in the deep gloom, reflecting back the strange light of
the lake.  The Hadeshorn sat at the center of the bowl, broad and
opaque, its still, flat surface glimmering with some inner radiance, as
if the lake's soul pulsed within its depths.  It was still and lifeless
within the Valley of Shale, empty of movement, devoid of sound.  It had
the look and feel of a black hole, an eye looking down into the world
of the dead.

"We will wait here," Bremen advised, seating himself on the flat
surface of a low boulder, his cloak wrapped about his thin frame like a
shroud.

The others nodded, but stood staring down into the valley for a time,
unwilling to turn away just yet.  Bremen let them be.
They were feeling the weight of the valley's oppressive silence.
Only Kinson had been here before, and even he could not prepare
himself for what he must be feeling now.  Bremen under stood.  The
Hadeshorn was the promise of what awaited them all.  It was a glimpse
into the future they could not escape, a frightening dark look into
life's end.  It spoke in no recognizable words, but only in whispers
and small mutterings.  It revealed too little to give insight and just
enough to give pause.

The old man had been here twice now, and each time he had come away
forever changed.  There were truths to be learned and there was wisdom
to be gained from a meeting with the dead, but there was a price to be
paid as well.  You could not brush up against the future and escape
unscathed.  You could not see into the forbidden and avoid damage to
your sight.
Bremen remembered the feeling of those previous meetings.  He
remembered the cold that had worked its way down into his bones and
would not leave for weeks afterward.  He remembered his pervasive
longing for what he had missed in the years gone past that could never
be recaptured.  He was frightened even now of the possibility that
somehow he would stray from the narrow path permitted him in making
this forbidden contact and be swallowed up in the void, a creature
consigned to a limbo existence between life and death, neither all of
one or the other.

But the need to discover what he could of how the Warlock Lord might be
destroyed, of the choices and opportunities open to him in his effort
to save the Races, and of the secrets of the past and future hidden to
the living but revealed to the dead, far outweighed fear and doubt.  He
was compelled so fiercely by his need that he was forced to act on it
even at the risk of his own well-being.  Yes, there were dangers in
making this contact.
Yes, he would not emerge from it unharmed.  But it did not matter in
the scheme of things, for even giving up his life was an acceptable
price if it meant putting an end to his implacable enemy.

The others had forced themselves away from the valley's rim and drifted
over to sit with him.  He made himself smile reassuringly at them, one
by one, beckoning even the recalcitrant Kinson to come close.

"In the hour before dawn, I will go down into the valley," he told them
quietly.  "Once there, I will summon the spirits of the dead and ask
them to show me something of the future.  I will ask them to reveal the
secrets that would help us in our efforts to destroy the Warlock
Lord.
I will ask them to give up any magic that might aid us.  I must do this
quickly and all within that short span of time before the sun rises.
You will wait here for me.  You will not come down into the valley,
whatever happens.  You will not act on what you see, even though it
might seem as if you must.  Do nothing but wait."

"Perhaps one of us should go with you," Risca offered bluntly.
"There is safety in numbers, even with the dead.  If you can speak with
their spirits, so can we.  We are Druids all, save the Borderman."

"That you are Druids does not matter," Bremen said at once.  "It is too
dangerous for you.  This is something I must do alone.  You will wait
here.  I want your promise, Risca."

The Dwarf gave him a long, hard look and then nodded.
Bremen turned to the others.  Each nodded reluctantly in turn.
Mareth's eyes met his own and held them with secret understanding.

"You are convinced this is necessary?"  Kinson pressed softly.

The lines of Bremen's aged face crinkled slightly deeper with the
furrowing of his brow.  "If I could think of something else to do,
something that would aid us, I would leave this place.  I am no fool,
Kinson.  Nor hero.  I know what coming here means.  I know it damages
me."

"Then perhaps .  . ."

"But the dead speak to me as the living cannot," Bremen continued,
cutting him short.  "We need their wisdom and in sight.  We need their
visions, flawed and bereft of understanding as they sometimes are."  He
took a deep breath.  "We need to see through their eyes.  If I must
give up something of myself to gain that insight, then so be it."

They were silent then, lost in their separate thoughts, mulling over
his words and the misgivings they generated.  But there was no help for
it.  He had told them what was necessary, and there was nothing else to
say.  They would understand better, perhaps, when this matter was
done.

So they sat in the darkness and glanced surreptitiously at the
shimmering surface of the lake, their faces bathed in the weak light as
they listened to the silence and waited for the dawn to draw closer.

And when at last it did, when it was time to go, Bremen rose and faced
his companions with a small smile, then went past them wordlessly and
down into the Valley of Shale.

Once more, his progress was slow.  He had come this way before, but
familiarity did not aid where the terrain was so treacherous.  The rock
underneath was slippery and loose at every point, and the edges were
sharp enough to cut.  He picked his way carefully, testing each step on
the uncertain surface.  His boots crunched and ground on the rock, the
sound echoing in the deep silence.  From west where the clouds massed
thickest, thunder rumbled ominously, signaling the approach of a
storm.
Within the valley, there was no wind, but the smell of rain permeated
the dead air.  Bremen glanced up as a flicker of lightning splintered
the black skies, then repeated its pattern farther north against the
backdrop of the mountains.  Dawn would bring more than the sunrise this
day.

He reached the bottom of the valley and slogged forward at a more rapid
pace, his footing steadier on the level ground.
Ahead, the Hadeshorn glimmered with silvery incandescence, the light
reflecting from somewhere below its flat, still surface.  He could
smell death here, an unmistakable mustiness, an arid and fetid decay.
He was tempted to look back to where the others waited, but knew he
must not distract himself even in that small way.  He was already
running through the ritual he must follow when he reached the
lakeshore-the words, the signs, the conjuring acts that would bring the
dead to speak with him.  He was already hardening himself against their
debilitating presence.

All too soon he stood upon the edge of the lake, a frail, small figure
in a vast arena of rock and sky, all withered skin and old bones, the
strongest part of him his determination, his stubborn will.
Behind him, he could hear again the rumble of thunder from the
approaching storm.  Overhead, the clouds began to roil, stirred to
movement by the winds that bore on their back the coming rain.  Below,
he could feel the earth shiver as the spirits sensed his presence.

He spoke to them softly, calling out his name, his history, his reason
for coming to speak with them.  He made the signs with his arms and
hands, made the gestures that would summon them from the world of the
dead to the world of the living.  He saw the waters begin to stir in
response, and he quickened his pace.  He was confident and steady; he
knew what would follow.
First came the whispers, soft and distant, rising like invisible
bubbles from the waters.  Then came the cries, long and deep.

The cries increased in volume, growing from a few to many, rising in
tenor and impatience.  The waters of the Hadeshorn hissed with
dissatisfaction and need, and began to roil as rapidly as the clouds
overhead, stirred by their own coming storm.
Bremen gestured to them, bade them respond.  The learning he had
mastered in his studies with the Elves buttressed and en abled him, a
bedrock on which to build the summoning magic.
Answer me, he called to them.  Open to me.

Spray flew out of the center of the now violent waters, rising in a
fountain, collapsing back, rising again.  A rumble sounded deep within
the earth, a groan of dissatisfaction.  Bre men felt the first trace of
doubt steal into his heart, and it was with an effort that he forced
himself to ignore it.  He could feel a vacuum forming around him,
spreading out from the lake to encompass the whole of the valley.
Only the dead would be allowed within its perimeter-the dead, and the
one who had summoned them.

Then the spirits began to rise from the lake: small, white filaments
of light given vaguely human form, bodies bathed in a firefly radiance
that glimmered against the blackness of the clouded night.
The spirits spiraled out of the mist and spray snakelike, lifting from
the dark, dead air of their afterlife home to visit briefly the world
they had once inhabited.  Bremen kept his arms raised in a warding
gesture, feeling vulnerable and be reft of power, though he had done
the summoning, though he had brought the spirits to life.  Cold ran
down his brittle limbs in a rush, ice water through his veins.  He held
himself firm against the fear that raced through him, against the
whispers that asked accusingly: Who calls us?  Who dares?

Then something huge broke the water's surface at its exact center, a
black-cloaked figure that dwarfed the smaller glowing forms, scattering
them with its coming, soaking up their fragile light and leaving them
whirling and twisting like leaves in the wind.  The cloaked figure rose
to stand upon the dark, churning waves of the Hadeshorn, only vaguely
substantial, a wraith without flesh or bones, yet of firmer stuff than
the smaller creatures it dominated.

Bremen held himself steady as the dark figure advanced.
This was whom he had come to seei this was the one he had summoned.
Yet he was no longer certain he had done the right thing.
The cloaked form slowed, so close now that it blotted out the sky
above and the valley behind.  Its hood lifted, and there was no face,
no sign of anything within the dark robes.

It spoke, and its voice was a rumble of discontent.

-Do you know me

 Flat, dispassionate, and empty, a question without a
question's inflection, the words hung upon the silence in a lingering
echo.

Bremen nodded slowly in response.  "I do," he whispered.

AT THE RIM OF THE VALLEY, the four he had left behind watched the drama
unfold.  They saw the old man stand upon the shores of the Hadeshorn
and summon the spirits of the dead.  They saw the spirits rise amid the
roiling of the waters, saw their glowing forms, the movement of their
arms and legs, the twisting of their bodies in a macabre dance of
momentary freedom.
They watched as the huge, black-robed form lifted from their midst,
enveloping them in its wake, absorbing their light.  They watched the
figure advance to stand before Bremen.

But they could hear nothing of what they saw.  Within the valley, all
was silent.  The sounds of the lake and the spirits were closed away.
The voices of the Druid and the cloaked figure, if they spoke, were
inaudible.  They could hear only the wind that rushed past their ears
and the beginning patter of raindrops on the crushed stone.  The
expected storm was breaking, rolling out of the west in a mass of dark
clouds, descending on them with sheets of rain.  It reached them at the
same moment the cloaked figure reached Bremen, and it swallowed
everything in an instant's time.  The lake, the spirits, the cloaked
figure, Bremen, the whole of the valley-all were gone in the blink of
an eye.

Risca growled in dismay and glanced quickly at the others.
They were cloaked now against the storm, hunched down within their
coverings like crones bent with age.  "Can you see?"  he demanded
anxiously.

"Nothing," Tay Trefenwyd answered at once.  "They're gone."

For a moment, no one moved, uncertain what they should do.  Kinson
peered through the downpour's haze, trying to distinguish something of
the shapes he thought he could just make out.  But everything was
shadowy and surreal, and there was no chance of making sure from where
they stood.

"He may be in trouble," Risca snapped accusingly.

"He told us to wait," Kinson forced himself to say, not wanting to be
reminded of the old man's instructions when he feared so for him, but
not willing to ignore his promise either.

Rain blew into their faces in sudden gusts, choking them.

"He is all right!"  Mareth cried out suddenly, her hand brushing the
air before her face.

They stared at her.  "You can see them?"  Risca demanded.

She nodded, her face lowered into shadow.  "Yes."

But she could not.  Kinson was closest to her and saw what the others
missed.  If she was seeing Bremen, it was not through her eyes.

Her eyes, he realized in shock, had turned white.

WITHIN THE VALLEY OF SHALE, no rain fell, no wind blew, nothing of the
storm penetrated.  There was for Bremen no sense of anything beyond the
lake and the dark figure that stood upon it before him.

-Speak my name

 Bremen took a deep breath, trying to still the trembling
of his limbs and the rush of cold that filled his chest.
"You are Galaphile that was."

It was an expected part of the ritual.  A spirit summoned could not
remain unless its name was spoken by the summoner.
Now it could stay long enough to give answers to the questions Bremen
would ask-if it chose to answer at all.

The shade stirred, suddenly restless.

-What would you know of me 

Bremen did not hesitate.  "I would know
whatever you would tell me of the rebel Druid Brona, of he who has
become the Warlock Lord."  His voice was shaking as badly as his
hands.
"I would know how to destroy him.  I would know what is to come."  His
voice died away in a dry rattle.

The Hadeshorn hissed and spit as if in response to his words, and the
moans and cries of the dead rose out of the night in a strident
cacophony.  Bremen felt the cold stir anew in his chest, a snake
coiling as it prepared to strike.  He felt the whole of his years press
down upon him.  He felt the weakness of his body betray the strength of
his determination.

-You would destroy him at any cost

"Yes."

-You would pay any price to do so 

Bremen felt the snake within spring
deep into his heart.
"Yes," he whispered in despair.

The spirit of Galaphile spread its arms as if to enfold the old man, as
if to shelter and protect him.

-Watch 

Visions began to appear against the black spread of its cloaked
form, taking shape within the shroud of its body.  One by one, they
materialized out of the darkness, vague and in substantial, shimmering
like the waters of the Hadeshorn with the coming of the spirits.
Bremen watched the images parade before him, and he was drawn to them
as to light in darkness.

There were four.

In the first, he stood within the ancient fortress of Paranor.
All around him there was death.  No one lived within the Keep, all
slain by treachery, all destroyed by wicked stealth.  Blackness cloaked
the castle of the Druids, and blackness stirred within its shadows in
the form of assassins waiting, a deadly force.  But beyond that
blackness shone with gleaming certainty the bright, shimmering
medallion of the High Druids, awaiting his coming, needful of his
touch, an image of a hand raised aloft with a burning torch-the
cherished Eilt Druin.

The vision vanished, and he soared now across the vast expanse of the
Westland.  He looked down, amazed, unable to account for his flight.
At first he could not determine where he was.  Then he recognized the
lush valley of the Sarandanon and beyond, the blue expanse of the
Innisbore.  Clouds obscured his vision momentarily, changing
everything.  Then he saw mountains-the Kensrowe or the Breakline?
Within their mass were twin peaks, fingers of a hand split outward from
each other in a V shape.  Between them a pass led to a vast cluster of
fingers, all jammed together, crushed into a single mass.  Within the
fingers was a fortress, hidden away, ancient beyond imagining, a place
come out of the time of faerie.  Bremen swooped down into its blackness
and found death waiting, though he could not spy out its face.  And
there, within its coils, lay the Black Elfstone.

This vision vanished, too, and now he stood upon a battle field.
The dead and wounded lay all about, men from all the Races and things
from no race known to man.  Blood streaked the earth, and the cries of
the combatants and the clash of their weapons rang out in the fading
gray light of a late afternoon sky.  Before him stood a man, his face
turned away.  He was tall and blond.  He was an Elf.  He carried in his
right hand a gleaming sword.  Several yards farther away was the
Warlock Lord, black-robed and terrible, an indomitable presence that
challenged all.  He seemed to wait on the tall man, unhurried, 
confident, defiant.  The tall man advanced, raising high the sword, and
beneath the gloved hand on the weapon's handle was the insignia of the
Eilt Druin.

One last vision appeared.  It was dark and clouded and filled with
sounds of sorrow and despair.  Bremen stood once more in the Valley of
Shale before the waters of the Hadeshorn.  He faced anew the shade of
Galaphile, watching as the smaller, brighter spirits swirled about it
like smoke.  At his side was a boy, tall and lean and dark, barely
fifteen, so solemn he might have been in mourning.  The boy turned to
Bremen, and the Druid looked into his eyes ... his eyes ...

The visions faded and were gone.  The shade of Galaphile drew itself
into a tighter coalescence, masking away the images, stealing away the
brief light they had given.  Bremen stared, blinking, wondering at what
he had witnessed.

"Will these happen?"  he whispered to the shade.  "Will they come to
pass?"

-Some have come to pass already 

"The Druids, Paranor ... ?"

-Do not ask more

 "But what can I ... ?"

The shade gestured, dismissing out of hand the old man's questions.
Bremen caught his breath as bands of iron tightened around his chest.
The bands released, and he swallowed down his fear.  Spray flew from
the Hadeshorn in a bright geyser, diamonds against the black velvet
night.

The shade began to recede.

-Do not forget 

Bremen lifted his hand in a futile effort to slow the
other's departure.  "Wait!"

-A price for each 
The old man shook his head in confusion.  A price for
each?
Each what?  For whom?

-Remember 

Then the Hadeshorn boiled anew, and the ghost sank slowly
back into the churning waters, drawing down with it all of the
brighter, smaller spirits that had accompanied it.  Down they went in a
rush of spray and mist, amid cries and whimpers from the dead, back to
the netherworld from which they had come.  Water exploded in a massive
column as they disappeared, breaking apart the silence and dead air in
a frightening explosion.

Then the storm came flooding in, with wind and rain, with thunder and
lightning, hammering into the old man.  Bremen went down with the blow,
felled in an instant.

Eyes open and staring, he lay senseless at the water's edge.

MARETH REACHED HIM first.  The men were larger and stronger, but her
footing was surer on the damp, slippery rock, and she fairly flew
across its polished surface.  She knelt immediately and cradled the old
man in her arms.  Rain poured down relentlessly, pocking the now
smooth, quiet surface of the Hadeshorn, washing down the black,
glistening carpet of the valley, turning the dawn light hazy and
vague.
It soaked through Mareth's cloak to her skin, chilling her, but she
ignored it, her small features twisting in concentration.  Her face
lifted to the darkened skies and her eyes closed.  The other three
slowed as they reached her, uncertain what was happening.  Her arms
tightened about Bremen.  Then she shuddered violently and slumped 
forward, and the men rushed ahead to catch her.  Kinson lifted her away
from Bremen, while Tay picked up the old man, an in a knot they fought
their way back through the downpour and out of the Valley of Shale.

Once clear, they found shelter in a grotto they had passed on their way
in.  There they laid the girl and the old man on the stone floor and
wrapped them in their cloaks.  There was no wood for a fire, so they
were forced to remain sodden and chilled, waiting out the rain.
Kinson checked for heartbeat and pulse and found both strong.  After a
time, the old man came awake, then almost immediately after, the
girl.
The three watchers crowded around Bremen to ask what had happened, but
the old man shook his head and told them he did not wish to speak just
yet.  They left him reluctantly and moved away again.

Kinson paused beside Mareth, thinking to ask what she had done to
Bremen-for it seemed clear that she had done something-but she glanced
up at him and turned away immediately, so he abandoned the attempt.

The day brightened marginally, and the rains moved on.
Kinson shared the food he carried with the others.  Only Bremen
would not eat.  The old man seemed to have retreated somewhere deep
inside himself-or perhaps he was still some where back within that
valley-staring at nothing, his seamed, weathered face an expressionless
mask.  Kinson watched him for a time, searching for some sign of what
he was thinking, failing in his effort to do so.

Finally the old man looked up as if just discovering they were there
and wondering why, then beckoned them to sit close to him.  When they
were settled, he told them of his meeting with the shade of Galaphile
and of the four visions he had been shown.

"I could not decide what the visions meant," he concluded, his voice
weary and rough-edged in the silence.  "Were they simply prophecies of
what is to come, a future already decided?
Were they the promise of what might be if certain things were done?
Why were these particular visions selected by the shade?
What response is expected of me?  All these questions, left
unanswered."

"What price are you being asked to pay for your involvement in all of
this?"  Kinson muttered darkly.  "Don't forget that one."

Bremen smiled.  "I have asked to be involved, Kinson.  I have put
myself in the position of being protector of the Races and destroyer of
the Warlock Lord, and I do not have the right to ask what it will cost
me if my efforts succeed.

"Still," he sighed, "I believe I understand something now of what is
required of me.  But I will need help from all of you."  He looked at
them in turn.  "I must ask you to put yourselves in great danger, I'm
afraid."

Risca snorted.  "Thank goodness.  I was beginning to think nothing at
all would come of this adventure.  Tell us what we must do."

"Yes, best to get started with this journey," Tay agreed, leaning
forward eagerly.

Bremen nodded, gratitude reflected in his eyes.  "We are agreed that
the Warlock Lord must be stopped before he subjugates all of the
Races.  We know that he has tried and failed once already, but that
this time he is stronger and more dangerous.  I told you that because
of this I believe he will attempt to destroy the Druids at Paranor.
The first vision suggests that I was right."  He paused.  "I am afraid
perhaps that it has already come to pass."

There was a long silence as the others exchanged wary glances.
"You think the Druids are all dead?"  Tay asked softly.

Bremen nodded.  "I think it is a possibility.  I hope I am wrong.
In any event, whether they are dead or not, I must retrieve the Eilt
Druin in accordance with the first vision.  The visions taken together
make it clear that the medallion is the key to forging a weapon that
will destroy Brona.  A sword, a blade of special power, of magic that
the Warlock Lord cannot withstand."

"What magic?"  Kinson asked at once.

"I don't know yet."  Bremen smiled anew, shaking his head.  "I know
hardly anything beyond the fact that a weapon is needed and if the
vision is to be believed, the weapon must be a sword."

"And that you must find the man who will wield it," Tay added.  "A man
whose face you were not shown."

"But the last vision, that dark image of the Hadeshorn and the boy with
the strange eyes .  . ."  Mareth began worriedly.

"Must wait until its time."  Bremen cut her short, though not
harshly.
His gaze settled on her face, searching.  "Things reveal themselves as
they will, Mareth.  We cannot rush them.  And we cannot allow ourselves
to be constrained by our concern for them."

"So what are you asking us to do?"  Tay pressed.

Bremen faced him.  "We must separate, Tay.  I want you to return to
the Elves and ask Courtann Ballindarroch to mount an expedition to
search out the Black Elfstone.  In some way the Stone is critical to
our efforts to destroy Brona.  The visions suggest as much.  The
winged hunters already search for it.  They must not be allowed to find
it.  The Elf King must be persuaded to support us in this.  We have the
particulars of the vision to help us.  Use what it has shown us and
recover the Stone before the Warlock Lord."

He turned to Risca.  "I need you to travel to Raybur and the Dwarves at
Culhaven.  The armies of the Warlock Lord march east, and I believe
they will strike there next.  The Dwarves must make themselves ready to
defend against an attack and must hold until help can be sent.
You must use your special skills to see that they do so.  Tay will
speak with Ballindarroch to ask the Elves to join forces with the
Dwarves.  If they do so, they will be a match for the Troll army that
Brona relies upon."

He paused.  "But mostly we must gain time to forge the weapon that will
destroy Brona.  Kinson, Mareth, and I will return to Paranor and
discover whether the vision of its fall is true.  I will seek to gain
possession of the Eilt Druin."

"If he still lives, Athabasca will not give it up," Risca de clared.
"You know that."

"Perhaps," Bremen replied mildly.  "In any case, I must determine how
this sword that I was shown is to be forged, what magic it shall
possess, what power it needs to be imbued with.
I must discover how to make it indestructible.  Then I must find its
wielder."

"You must perform miracles, it seems to me," Tay Trefenwyd mused
ironically.

"All of us must do so," Bremen answered softly.

They looked at each other in the gloomy light, an unspoken
understanding taking shape between them.  Beyond their shelter,
rainwater dripped in steady cadence from the rocky outcroppings.  It
was midmorning, and the light had turned silvery as the sun sought to
fight its way through the lingering stormclouds.

"If the Druids at Paranor are dead, then we are all that is left," Tay
said. "just the five of us."

Bremen nodded.  "Then five must be enough."  He rose, looking out into
the gloom.  "We had better get started."

CHAPTER 6

THAT SAME NIGHT, west and north of where Bremen confronted the shade of
Galaphile, deep within the stone ring of the Dragon's Teeth, Caerid
Lock made his rounds of the watch at Paranor.  It was nearing midnight
when he crossed an open court on the parapets facing south and was
momentarily distracted by a wicked flash of lightning in the distant
skies.  He paused, watching and listening to the silence.
Clouds banked from horizon to horizon, shutting out moon and stars,
cloaking the world in blackness.  Lightning flashed a second time,
momentarily splintering the night like shattered glass, then vanishing
as if it had never been.  Thunder rolled in its wake, a long, deep peal
that echoed off the mountain peaks.  The storm was staying south of
Paranor, but the air smelled of rain and the silence was deep and
oppressive.

The Captain of the Druid Guard lingered a moment longer, contemplative,
then moved on through a tower door and into the Keep.
He made these same rounds every night, disdaining sleep, a compulsive
man whose work habits never varied.  The times of greatest danger, he
believed, were just before midnight and just before dawn.  These were
the times when weariness and sleep dulled the senses and made you
careless.  If an attack was planned, it would come then.  Because he
believed that Bremen would not give warning without reason, and because
he was cautious by nature, he had determined to keep an especially sharp
eye these next few weeks.  He had already increased the number of
guards on any given watch and begun the laborious process of
strengthening the gate locks.  He had considered sending night patrols
into the surrounding woods as an added precaution, but was worried that
they would be too vulnerable beyond the protection of the walls.  His
guard was large, but it was not an army.  He could provide security
within, but he could not give battle without.

He descended the tower stairs to the front courtyard and crossed.
Half a dozen guards were stationed at the entry, responsible for the
gates, portcullis, and watchtowers that fronted the main approach to
the castle.  They snapped to attention at his approach.  He spoke with
the officer in charge, confirmed that all was well, and continued on.
He recrossed the open court, listening to a new roll of thunder break
the deep night silence, glancing south to search for the flash of
lightning that had preceded it, realizing as he did that it would
already be gone.  He was uneasy, but no more so this night than any
other, as wary as he was compulsive about his responsibilities.  Some
times he thought he had stayed too long at Paranor.  He did his job
well; he knew he was still good at it.  He was proud of his command;
all of the guards presently in service had been selected and trained
by him.  They were a solid, dependable bunch, and he knew he could take
credit for that.  But he was not getting any younger, and age brought a
dulling of the senses that encouraged complacency.  He could hardly
afford that.  The fall of the Northland and the rumors of the Warlock
Lord made these dangerous times.  He sensed change in the wind.
Something bad was coming to the Four Lands, and it would most certainly
sweep up the Druids in its wake.  Something bad was coming, and Caerid
Lock was worried that he would not recognize its face until it was too
late.

He passed through a doorway at the end of the court and walked down a
hall that ran to the north wall and the gate that opened there.
There were four gates to the Keep, one for each approach.  There were a
number of smaller doors as well, but these were constructed of stone
and sealed with iron.  Most were cleverly hidden.  You could find them
if you looked hard enough, but to do that you had to stand right up
against the wall where the light was good and the guards on the battle
ments would see you.  Nevertheless, Caerid kept a man at each during
the hours between sunset and sunrise, taking nothing for granted.  He
passed two on his way to the west gate, fifty yards apart along the
winding corridor.  The guard at each acknowledged him with a sharp
salute.  Alert and ready, they were saying.  Caerid gave a nod of
approval both times and passed on.

He frowned though, when out of sight, troubled by their deployment.
The man at the first door, a Troll from the Kershalt, was a veteran,
but the man at the second, a young Elf, was new.  He did not like
stationing new men by themselves.
He made a mental note to correct that before the next watch.

He was concentrating on the matter as he passed a back stairway leading
down from the Druid sleeping quarters and so missed the furtive
movement of the three men hiding there.

THE THREE PRESSED THEMSELVES TIGHTLY against the stone wall as the
Captain of the Druid Guard passed unseeing below them.
They remained very still until he was gone, then detached themselves
once more and continued down.  They were Druids, all of them, each with
more than ten years of service to the Council, each with a zealot's
burning conviction that he was destined for greatness.
For they had lived within the Druid order and chafed at its dictates
and rules and found them foolish and purposeless and unfulfilling.
Power was necessary if life was to have meaning.  A man's
accomplishments meant nothing if they did not result in personal
gain.
What purpose did private study serve if it could not be put to
practical use?  What sense did it make to brush up against all those
secrets of science and magic if they could not ever be tested?  So they
had asked themselves, these three, separately at first, then all
together as they came to realize that they shared a common belief.
They were not alone in their dissatisfaction, of course.  Others
believed as they did.  But none so fervently-none so that, like these
three, they would allow themselves to become subverted.

There was no hope for them.  The Warlock Lord had been looking for them
for a long time, planning his revenge on the Druids.  He found them out
eventually and made them his own.
It had taken time, but bit by bit he had won them over, just as he had
won over those who had followed him from the Keep three hundred and
fifty years earlier.  Such men were always there, waiting to be
claimed, waiting to be used.  Brona had been sly in his approach, not
revealing himself to them in the beginning, letting them hear his voice
as if it were their own, exposing them to the possibilities, to the
scent of power, to the lure of magic.  He let them chain themselves to
him with their own hands, let them forge locks of expectation and
greed, let them make themselves slaves by growing addicted to false
dreams and cravings.  In the end, they would have begged him to take
them, even after they had discovered who he was and what price they
must pay.

Now they crept through Paranor's corridors with dark in tent, committed
to a course of action that would doom them forever.  They stole in
silence from the stairwell and along the corridor to the doorway at
which the young Elf stood watch.
They clung to the shadows where the torchlight did not reach, using
small conjurings of magic given them by the Master sweet taste of
power-to cloak themselves from the young guard's eyes.

Then they were upon him, one of them striking a sharp blow to his head
to knock him senseless.  The other two worked quickly and furiously at
the locks that secured the stone door, releasing them one by one,
hauling back on the heavy iron grate, lifting off the massive bar from
its fittings, and finally, irrevocably, pulling open the door itself
so that Paranor lay open to the night and the things that waited
without.

The Druids stepped back as the first of those things slouched into the
light.  It was a Skull Bearer, hunched and massive within its black
cloak, claws extended before it.  All sharp edges and flat planes, all
hardness and bulk, it filled the corridor and seemed to suck away the
very air.  Red eyes burned into the three who cowered before it, and it
shoved its way past them disdainfully.  Leathery wings beat softly.
With a hiss of satisfaction, it seized the young Elven guard, ripped
out his throat, and cast him aside.  The Druids flinched as the rending
sprayed them with the victim's blood.

The Skull Bearer beckoned to the darkness without, and other creatures
poured through the doorway, things of tooth and nail, twisted and
gnarled and bristling with dark tufts of hair, armed and ready,
quick-eyed and furtive in the silence.
Some were vaguely recognizable; perhaps they had once been Trolls.
Some were beasts of the netherworld and looked in no way human.  All
had been waiting since just after sunset in a dark alcove in the
shelter of the outer walls where they could not be seen from the
parapets.  There they had hidden, knowing these three pitiful beings
who cowered before them had been claimed by the Master and would gain
them access to the Keep.

Now they were inside and eager to begin the bloodletting that had been
promised them.

The Skull Bearer sent one back out into the night to summon those
still within the forest.  There were several hundred, waiting for the
signal to advance.  They would be seen from the walls as they emerged
from the trees, but the alarm would come too late.  By the time
Paranor's defenders could reach them, they would be inside the Keep.

The Skull Bearer turned and started down the hall.  It did not
acknowledge the three Druids.  They were less than nothing to it.  It
left them behind, discards, leavings.  It was up to the Master to
decide what would become of them.  All that mattered to the winged
hunter was the killing that lay ahead.

The attackers divided into small groups as they went.  Some crept up
the stairway to the Druid sleeping chambers.  Some turned down a
secondary corridor that led deep into the Keep.
Most continued with the Skull Bearer along the passageway that led to
the main gates.

Soon, the screams began.

CAERID LOCK CAME RACING back across the courtyard from the north gate
when the alarm was finally given.  The screams came first, then the
sound of a battle horn.  The Captain of the Druid Guard knew everything
in an instant.  Bremen's prophecy had come true.  The Warlock Lord was
inside the gates of Paranor.
The certainty of it chilled him to the bone.  He called his men to him
as he ran, thinking there might still be time.  They charged into the
Keep and down the corridor that led to the door the traitor Druids had
breached.  As they rounded a turn, they found the passageway ahead
packed with black, hunched forms that squirmed through the opening out
of the night.  Too many to engage, Caerid realized at once.  He took
his men back quickly, and the beasts were quick to pursue.  The guards
abandoned the lower level and went up the stairs to the next, closing
doors and dropping gates behind them, trying to seal their attackers
off.  It was a desperate gamble, but it was all that Caerid Lock could
think to do.

On the next floor, they were able to close off the lesser entrances
and move to the main stairs.  By then, they were fifty strong-but still
not enough.  Caerid sent men to wake the Druids, to beg their
assistance.  Some among the elders knew magic, and they would need
whatever power they could call upon if they were to survive.  His mind
raced as he rallied his men.  This was no forced entry.  This was a
betrayal from within.  He would find those responsible later, he
swore.
He would deal with them personally.

At the top of the main stairs, the Druid Guard made its stand.
Elves, Dwarves, Trolls, and one or two Gnomes, they stood shoulder to
shoulder, ordered and ready, united in their determination.  Caerid
Lock stood foremost in the center of their ranks, sword drawn.  He did
not try to fool himself! this was a holding action at best and doomed
eventually to fail.  Already he was considering his options when they
were defeated.
There was nothing he could do about the outer walls; they were lost
already.  The inner walls and the Keep were theirs for the moment, the
entries sealed off, his men rallied in their defense.
But these efforts would only slow a determined attacker.  There were
too many ways into and over and under the inner wall for the Druid
Guard to hold for very long.  Sooner or later their at tacker would
break through from behind.  When that happened, they would have to flee
for their lives.

An attack was mounted from below under the direction of the Skull
Bearer, and crooked-limb monsters ascended the stairs in a knot of
teeth and claws and weapons.  Caerid led his guards in a counterattack,
and the rush was repulsed.  The monsters came again, and again the
Druid Guard threw them back.
But by now half of the defenders were either dead or injured, and no
more had appeared to replace them.

Caerid Lock looked around in despair.  Where were the Druids?
Why weren't they responding to the alarm?

The monsters attacked a third time, a bristling mass of thrashing
bodies and windmilling limbs, shrieks and cries rising out of gaping
throats.  The Druid Guard counterattacked once more, cutting into the
monsters, beating them back down the stairway, leaving half their
number sprawled lifeless on the blood-slicked steps.  In desperation
Caerid dispatched another man to summon help from wherever he could
find it.  He grabbed the man by his tunic as he was about to leave and
pulled him close.  "Find the Druids and tell them to flee while there
is still time!"  he whispered so that no other might hear.
"Tell them Paranor is lost!  Go quick, tell them!  Then flee
yourself!"

The messenger's face drained of blood, and he sprinted away
wordlessly.

Another assault massed in the shadows below, a congealing of dark forms
and guttural cries.  Then, from somewhere higher up within the Keep,
where the Druids slept, a piercing scream rose.

Caerid felt his heart sink.  It's finished, he thought, not frightened
or sad, but simply disgusted.

Seconds later, the creatures of the Warlock Lord surged up the stairway
once more.  Caerid Lock and his failing command raced to meet them,
weapons raised.

But this time there were too many.

KAHLE Rese WAS ASLEEP in the Druid library when the sounds of the
attack woke him.  He had been working late, cataloging reports he had
compiled during the past five years on weather patterns and their
effects on farm crops.  Eventually he had fallen asleep at his desk.
He came awake with a start, jolted by the cries of wounded men, the
clash of weapons, and the thudding of booted feet.  He lifted his
graying head and looked about uncertainly, then rose, took a moment to
steady himself, and walked to the door.

He peered out guardedly.  The cries were louder now, more
terrible in their urgency and pain.
Men rushed past his door, members of the Druid Guard.  The Keep was
under attack, he realized.  Bremen's warning had fallen on deaf ears,
and now the price of their refusal to heed was to be exacted.  He was
surprised at how certain he was of what was happening and how it would
end.  Already he knew he was not going to live out the night.

Still he hesitated, unwilling even at this point to accept what he
knew.  The hall was empty now, the sounds of battle centered somewhere
below.  He thought to go out for a better look at things, but even as
he was contemplating the idea, a shadowy presence emerged from the back
stairway.  He pulled his head inside quickly and peered out through his
barely cracked door.

Black, misshapen creatures lurched into view, things that were
unrecognizable, monsters from his worst nightmare.  He caught his
breath and held it.  Room by room, they were working their way down the
corridor to where he waited.

He closed the library door softly and locked it.  For a moment he just
stood there, unable to move.  A rush of images recalled themselves,
memories of his early days as a Druid in training, of his subsequent
tenure as a Druid Scribe, of his ceaseless efforts to collect and
preserve the writings of the old world and of faerie.  So much had
happened, but in so short a time.  He shook his head in wonder.  How
had it all gone by so quickly?

There were screams close at hand now, freshly raised, come from just
beyond his door, in the hall where the monsters prowled.  Time was
running out.

He moved quickly to his desk and took out the leather pouch that Bremen
had given him.  Perhaps he should have gone with his old friend.
Perhaps he should have saved himself while he had the chance.  But who
would have protected the Druid Histories if he had done so?  Who else
could Bremen have relied upon?  Besides, this was where he belonged.

He knew so little of the world beyond anymore; it had been too long
since he had gone out into it.  He was of no use to any one beyond
these walls.  Here, at least, he might still serve a purpose.

He walked to the bookcase that doubled as a hidden door way to the room
that concealed the Druid Histories and triggered its release.  He
entered and looked around.  The room was filled with huge,
leather-bound books.  Row after row, they sat in numbered, ordered
sequence, reservoirs of knowledge, of all the lore the Druids had
gathered since the time of the First Council from the ages of faerie,
Man, and the Great Wars.  Each page of each book was crammed with
information gained and recorded, some of it understood, some of it a
mystery still, all that remained of science and magic past and
present.
Much of what was written in these books had been done so in Kahle's own
hand, the words painstakingly inscribed, line by line, for more than
forty years.  Their recordings were the old man's special pride, the
summation of his life's work, the accomplishment he favored most.

He crossed to the nearest bank of shelves, took a deep breath, and
opened the drawstrings to Bremen's leather pouch.
He mistrusted all magic, but there was no other choice.  Besides,
Bremen would never mislead him.  What mattered to both was the
preservation of the Histories.  They must survive him, as they were
intended to.  They must survive them all.

He took a generous handful of the glittering, silver dust he found
inside the pouch and threw it across one section of the books.
Instantly, the entire wall on which the books were housed began to
shimmer, taking on the look of a mirage in deep summer heat.  Kahle
hesitated, then threw more of the dust across the liquid curtain.  The
shelves and books disappeared.  He moved on quickly then, using
handfuls of the dust on each set of shelves, each section of books,
watching them shimmer and fade away.

Moments later, the Druid Histories had vanished completely.  All that
remained was a room with four blank walls and a long reading table at
its center.

Kahle Rese nodded in satisfaction.  The Histories were safe now.
Even if the room was discovered, its contents would remain
concealed.
It was as much as he could hope for.

He walked back through the door, suddenly weary.  There was a scraping
at the library door as unwieldy claws tried to fasten on the handle
and turn it.  Kahle turned and carefully closed the bookcase door.  He
placed the nearly empty leather pouch into the pocket of his robe,
walked to his desk, and stood there.

He had no weapons.  He had no place to run.  There was nothing to do
but wait.

Heavy bodies threw themselves against the door from with out,
splintering it.  A second later it gave way, crashing open against the
wall.  Three crook-backed beasts slouched into the room, red eyes
narrow and hateful as they fixed on him.  He faced them without
flinching as they approached.

The closest held a short spear.  Something in the bearing of the man
before him infuriated him.  When he was right on top of Kahle Rese, he
drove the spear through his chest and killed him instantly.

WHEN IT WAS FINISHFD, when all who remained of the guards had been
hunted down and slaughtered, the Druids who had survived were herded
from their hiding places into the Assembly and made to fall upon their
knees, ringed by the monsters who had undone them.
Athabasca was found, still alive, and brought to stand before the Skull
Bearer.  The creature stared at the imposing, white-haired First Druid,
then ordered him to bow down and acknowledge him as Master.  When
Athabasca refused, proud and disdainful even in defeat, the creature
seized him by his neck, looked into his frightened eyes, and burned
them out with fire from his own.

As Athabasca lay writhing in agony on the stone floor, a sudden hush
fell over the Assembly.  The hissing and chattering died away.
The scraping of claws and grinding of teeth faded.

A silence descended, dark and foreboding, and all eyes were drawn to
the hall's main entry, where the heavy double doors hung shattered and
broken from their bindings.

There, within the jagged opening, the shadows seemed to come together,
a coalescing of darkness that slowly took shape and grew into a tall,
robed figure that did not stand upon the floor as normal men, but hung
above it in midair, as light and insubstantial as smoke.  A chill
permeated the air of the Assembly at its coming, a cold that swept
through the chamber and penetrated to the bones of the captured
Druids.
One by one their captors dropped to their knees, heads bowed, voices a
rough murmur.

Master, Master.

The Warlock Lord looked down upon the beaten Druids and was filled with
satisfaction.  They were his, now.  Paranor was his.  Revenge was at
hand, after all this time.

He brought his creatures back to their feet, then stretched his cloaked
arm toward Athabasca.  Unable to help himself, blinded and in pain, the
First Druid was jerked upright as if by invisible wires.  He hung above
the floor, above the other Dru ids, crying out in terror.
The Warlock Lord made a twisting motion, and the First Druid went
ominously still.  A second twisting motion, and the First Druid began
to chant in terrible, croaking agony, "Master, Master, Master."  The
Druids huddled about him turned their eyes away in shame and rage.
Some wept.  The massed creatures of the Warlock Lord hissed with
pleasure and approval, lifting their clawed limbs in salute.

Then the Warlock Lord nodded, and the Skull Bearer struck with terrible
swiftness, tearing Athabasca's heart from his chest while he still
lived.  The First Druid threw back his head and shrieked as his chest
exploded, then slumped forward and died.

For several long moments, the Warlock Lord held him sus pended over his
fellows like a rag doll, the blood draining from his body.  He swung
him this way and that, back and forth, and finally let him drop to the
stone in a sodden mass of ruined flesh and bone.

Then he had all the captured Druids taken from the Assembly, herded
like cattle to the deepest regions of Paranor's cellars, and walled
away alive.

As the last of their screams died into silence, he went up through the
stairways and corridors of the Keep in search of the Druid Histories.
He had destroyed the Druids now he must destroy their lore.  Or take
with him what he could use.  He went swiftly now, for already there
were stirrings from some where down within the Keep's bottomless well
that hinted of magic coming awake in response to his presence.  In his
own domain, he was a match for anything.  Here, within the haven of his
greatest enemies, he might not be.  He found the library and searched
it through.  He uncovered the bookcase that opened on the hidden
chamber beyond, but that chamber was empty.  There was magic in use, he
sensed, but he could not determine its origin or purpose.  Of the
Histories, there was no sign.

From within the depths of the Druid Well, the stirrings grew
stronger.

Something had been set loose in response to his coming, and it was
rising to seek him out.  He was disturbed that this should be, that
power of this sort should be set at watch to challenge him.  It could
not have originated with these pitiful mortals he had so easily
subdued.  They were no longer able to invoke such power.  It must have
come instead from the one who had penetrated his domain so recently,
the one his creatures had tracked, the Druid Bremen.

He went back down to the Assembly, anxious to be gone now as swiftly as
possible, his purpose here accomplished.  He had the three who had
betrayed Paranor brought before him.
He did not speak to them with words, for they were not worthy of this,
but let his thoughts speak for him.  They cringed and prostrated
themselves like sheep, poor foolish creatures who would be more than
they were able.

Master!  they whimpered in placating voices.  Master, we serve only
you!

Who among the Druids escaped the Keep besides Bremen?

Only three, Master A Dwarf, Risca.  An Elf, Tay Trefenwyd.  A Soutbland
girl, Maretb.

Did they go with Bremen?

Yes, with Bremen.

No others escaped?

No, Master.  None.

They will return.  They will hear of Paranor's fall and want to make
certain it is so.  You will be waiting.  You will finish what I have
begun.  Then you will be as I am.

Yes, Master, yes!

Stand.

They did so, rising hastily, eagerly, broken spirits and minds that
were his to command.  Yet they lacked the strength to do what was
required of them and so must be altered.  He reached out to them with
his magic, wrapped them about with strands as thin as gossamer and as
unyielding as iron, and stole away the last of what was human.

Their shrieks echoed through the empty halls as he relent lessly shaped
them into something new.  Arms and legs flailed.
Heads jerked wildly and eyes bulged.

When he was done, they were no longer recognizable.  He left them thus,
and with the remainder of his minions trailing obediently after he
stole back into the night, abandoning the castle of the Druids to the
dying and the dead.

CHAPTER 7

BREMEN GAVE HIS HAND to Risca in parting, and the Dwarf clasped it
firmly in his own.  They stood just outside the grotto in which they
had taken shelter upon leaving the Hadeshorn and its ghosts.  It was
nearing mid day now, the rain had dwindled to a fine mist, and the
skies were beginning to clear west above the dark peaks of the Dragon's Teeth.

"It seems we no sooner meet up again and it's off our separate ways,"
Risca grumbled.  "I don't know how we manage to stay friends.  I don't
know why we bother."

"We have no choice," Tay Trefenwyd offered from one side.
"No one else would have anything to do with us."

"True enough."  The Dwarf smiled in spite of himself.  "Well, this
should test the friendship, sure enough.  Scattered Eastland to
Westland and then some, and who knows when we'll meet again?"  He gave
Bremen's hand a hard squeeze.  "You watch out for yourself."

"And you, my good friend," the old man replied.

"Tay Trefenwyd!"  the Dwarf shouted over his shoulder.  He was already
striding down the trail.  "Don't forget your promise!
Pack up the Elves and bring them east!  Stand with us against the
Warlock Lord!  We'll be counting on you!"

 "Goodbye for now, Risca!" Tay called after him.

The Dwarf waved, hitching up his pack on his broad shoulders, his
broadsword swinging at his side.  "Luck to you, Elf ears.
Keep alert!  Watch your backside!"

They bantered back and forth good-naturedly, the Elf and the Dwarf, old
friends comfortable with each other's joshing, accustomed to exchanges
that teased and chided and masked emotions that lay just beneath the
surface of the words.  Kinson Ravenlock stood to one side listening to
the verbal byplay and wished there were time to know them better.  But
that would have to wait.  Risca had departed, and Tay would leave them
at the mouth of the Kennon, when they turned north toward Paranor and
the Elf continued west to Arborlon.  The Border man shook his head.
How hard this must be for Bremen.  It had been two years since he had
seen Risca and Tay.  Would it be two more before he saw them again?

When Risca had disappeared from view, Bremen led the three remaining
members of the little company down a second ary trail to the base of
the cliffs and then west along the north bank of the Mermidon,
retracing the steps that had brought them there.  They walked until
well after sunset, camping finally in the lee of a copse of alder on a
cove where the Mermidon branched south and west.  The skies had cleared
and were brilliant with stars, the light reflecting in a kaleidoscopic
sparkle off the placid surface of the water.  The company gathered on
the riverbank and ate their dinner staring out into the night.  No one
said much.  Tay cautioned Bremen to be wary at Paranor.  If the vision
he had been shown had come to pass and the castle of the Druids had
fallen, there was reason to believe that the Warlock Lord and his
minions might yet be in residence.  Or if not, the Elf added, he might
have left traps to ensnare any Druids who had escaped and were foolish
enough to return.  He said it lightly, and Bremen responded with a
smile.  Kinson noted that neither bothered to dispute the likelihood of
Paranor's destruction.  It must have been a bitter realization for
both, but neither showed anything of what they were feeling.
They made it a point not to dwell on the past.  It was the future that
mattered now.

To that end, Bremen talked at some length with Tay about his vision of
the Black Elfstone, going over the particulars of what he had been
shown, what he had sensed, and what he had deduced.  Kinson listened
idly, glancing now and again at Mareth, who was doing the same.  He
wondered what she was thinking, knowing as she did now that the Druids
of Paranor were probably gone.  He wondered if she realized how 
dramatically her role as a member of this company had changed.
She had said barely a word since coming out of the Valley of Shale,
keeping apart during the exchanges between Bremen, Risca, and Tay,
watching and listening.  Not unlike himself, Kinson thought.  For she,
too, was an outsider, still looking to find her place, not a Druid like
the others, not yet proven, not entirely accepted as an equal.  He
studied her, trying to gage her toughness, her resilience.  She would
need both for what lay ahead.

Later, when she was sleeping, Tay sprawled close to her and Bremen at
watch, Kinson rolled out of his cloak and walked over to sit with the
old man.  Bremen said nothing as he came up, looking out into the
darkness.  Kinson seated himself, crossed his long legs before him, and
wrapped his cloak comfortably about his shoulders.  The night was
warm, more in keeping with the season than of late, and the air was
filled with the smell of spring flowers and new leaves and grasses.  A
breeze blew down out of the mountains, rustling the limbs of the trees,
rippling the waters of the river.  The two men sat in silence for a
time, listening to the night sounds, lost in their separate thoughts.

"You are taking a great risk in returning," Kinson said finally.

"A necessary risk," Bremen amended.


"You feel certain Paranor has fallen, don't you?"

Bremen did not respond for a moment, as still as stone, then nodded
slowly.

"it will be very dangerous for you if that is so," Kinson pressed.
"Brona hunts you already.  He probably knows you have been to
Paranor.
He will expect you to return."

The old man's face turned slightly toward his younger companion,
creased and browned by weather and sun, etched by a lifetime of
struggle and disappointment.  "I know all this, Kinson.  And you know
that I know, so why are we discussing it?"

"So that you will be reminded," the Borderman declared firmly.
"So that you will be doubly cautious.  Visions are fine, but they are
tricky as well.  I don't trust them.  You shouldn't either.
Not entirely."

"You refer to the vision of Paranor, I presume?"

Kinson nodded.  "The Keep fallen and the Druids destroyed.
All clear enough.  But the sensation of something waiting, some thing
dangerous-that's the tricky part of this matter.  If it's accurate, it
won't come in any form you expect."

Bremen shrugged.  "No, I don't suppose it will.  But it doesn't
matter.
I have to make certain that Paranor is truly lost-no matter the
strength of my own suspicions-and I have to recover the Eilt Druin.
The medallion is to be an integral part of the talisman needed to
destroy the Warlock Lord.  The vision was clear enough on that.  A
sword, Kinson, that I must shape, that I must forge, that I must imbue
with magic that Brona him self cannot withstand.  The Eilt Druin is the
only part of that process that I have been shown; the medallion's image
was clearly visible on the sword's handle.  It is a place to begin.  I
must recover the medallion and determine what is needed from there."

Kinson studied him a moment in silence.  "You have already constructed
a plan for this, haven't you?"

"The beginnings of one."  The old man smiled.  "You know me too well,
my friend."

"I know you well enough to anticipate you now and then."
Kinson sighed and looked out across the river.  "Not that it helps me
in my efforts to persuade you to take better care of yourself."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that."

Wouldn't you?  Kinson thought wearily.  But he did not challenge the
statement, hoping that perhaps it was at least partly true, that the
old man did listen to him about a few things, particularly those that
argued for caution.  It was funny that Bremen, now in the twilight of
his life, was so much more reckless than the younger man.
Kinson had spent a lifetime on the border learning that a single
misstep was the difference between life and death, that knowing when to
act and when to wait kept you safe and whole.  He supposed that Bremen
appreciated the distinction, but he didn't always act as if he did.
Bremen was far more apt to challenge fate than Kinson.  The magic was
the difference, he supposed.  He was swifter and stronger than the old
man, and his instincts were surer, but Bremen had the magic to
sustain him, and the magic had never failed.  It gave Kinson some small
measure of reassurance that his friend was cloaked in an extra layer of
protection.  But he wished the measure could be larger.

He unfolded his long legs and stretched them out in front of him,
leaning back, bracing himself with his arms.  "What happened back there
with Mareth?"  he asked suddenly.  "At the Hadeshorn, when you
collapsed and she reached you first?"

Interesting young woman, Mareth."  The old man's voice was suddenly
soft.  He turned to face Kinson once more, a far away look in his
eyes.
"Remember how she claimed to have magic?  Well, the claim is a valid
one.  But perhaps it is not the sort of magic I envisioned.
I'm still not sure.  I do know some thing of it, though.  She is an
empath, Kinson.  Her healing art is buttressed by this power.  She can
take another's pain into herself and lessen it.  She can absorb
another's injury and speed its healing.  She did that with me at the
Hadeshorn.  The shock of seeing the visions and being touched by the
shades of the dead rendered me unconscious.  But she lifted me-I could
feel her hands-and brought me awake, strong again, healed."  He
blinked.  "it was very clear.  Did you happen to see what effect it had
on her?"

Kinson pursed his lips thoughtfully.  "She seemed to lose strength
momentarily, but it didn't last long.  But her eyes.  On the bluff,
when you disappeared in the storm while talking with the shade of
Galaphile, she said she could see you when the rest of us could not.
Her eyes were white."

"Her magic seems quite complex, doesn't it?"

"Empathic, you said.  But not in any small way."

"No.  There is nothing small about Mareth's magic.  It is very
powerful.  Probably she was born with it and has worked to de velop her
skills over the years.  Certainly with the Stors."  He paused.  "I
wonder if Athabasca realizes she possesses this skill.
I wonder if any of them realize it."

"She isn't one to give much away about herself.  She doesn't want
anyone to get too close."  Kinson pursed his lips thoughtfully.  "But
she does seem to admire you.  She told me how important it was to her
that she come with you on this journey."

Bremen nodded.  "Yes, well, there are secrets yet to be revealed about
Mareth, I think.  You and I, we shall have to find a way to draw them
out into the open."

Good luck to you on doing that, Kinson wanted to say, but kept the
thought to himself.  He remembered Mareth's reticence to accept even
the small comfort of his cloak when he had offered it.  It would take
an unusual set of circumstances for her to give away anything about
herself, he suspected.

But, then, nothing usual lay ahead for any of them, did it?

He sat with Bremen on the banks of the Mermidon, not speaking, not
moving, looking out across the water, projecting images from the dark
recesses of his mind of what he feared might come to pass.

THEY ROSE AT SUNRISE and walked through the day in the shadow of the
Dragon's Teeth, following the Mermidon west.
The weather turned warmer still, the temperature soaring, the air
thickening with moisture and heat.  Travel cloaks were discarded and
water consumed in increasing quantities.  They rested more frequently
in the afternoon hours, and it was still light when they reached the
Kennon.  There Tay Trefenwyd left them to continue on across the
grasslands to the forests of Arborlon.

"When you find the Black Elfstone, Tay, do not think to use it," Bremen
cautioned on parting.  "Not for any reason.  Not even if you are
threatened.  Its magic is powerful enough to accompush anything, but
it is dangerous as well.  All magic exacts a price for its use.  You
know that as well as I. The price for use of the Black Elfstone is too
high."

"It might destroy me," Tay finished, anticipating.

"We are mortal beings, you and I," Bremen observed quietly.

"We must tread lightly where the use of magic is concerned.
Your task is to recover the Elfstone and to bring it to me.  We do not
seek to use it.  We seek only to prevent the Warlock Lord from using
it.  Remember that."

"I will remember, Bremen."

"Warn Courtann Ballindarroch of the danger we face.  Convince him that
he must send his army to aid Raybur and the Dwarves.  Don't fail me."

"it will all be done."  The Druid Elf clasped his hand, released it,
and was off with a jaunty wave.  "Another memorable reunion, wasn't
it?  Watch out for him, Kinson.  Take care, Mareth.  Good luck to you
all."

He whistled happily, smiling back at them one final time.
Then his long stride lengthened, and he disappeared into the trees and
rocks and was gone.

Bremen huddled then with Kinson and Mareth to decide whether they
should continue on through the pass or wait until morning.  It appeared
another storm was approaching, but if they waited it out they might
lose another two days.  Kinson could tell that the old man was anxious
to continue, to reach Paranor and discover the truth of what had
happened.  They were rested and fit, so he urged that they go on.
Mareth was quick to give her support.  Bremen smiled his appreciation
and beckoned them forward.

They hiked into the pass as the sun dropped steadily toward the horizon
and slipped from view.  The skies remained clear and the air warm, so
travel was comfortable and they made good time.  By midnight, they were
through the top of the pass and starting down into the valley beyond.
The wind had picked up, howling out of the southwest in a steady rush,
spinning dirt and gravel off the trail in small funnels, clouding the
air with debris.  They walked with their heads lowered until they were
below the rim of the mountains and the wind had tailed off.
Ahead, the black silhouette of the Druid's Keep was clearly visible
against the starlit sky, rising out of the trees, towers and parapets
stark and jagged.  No lights burned in its windows or from its
battlements.  No movement or sound disturbed its silence.

They reached the valley floor and were swallowed by the forest.
Moon and stars lit their way through the deep shadows, guiding them on
toward the Keep.  Massive old growth hemmed them about, rising over
them like the pillars of a temple.  Glades softened by thick grasses
and small streams came and went.  The night continued still and sleepy
about them, empty of sound and movement save for the wind, which had
picked up again, blowing past their faces in small, hard gusts,
rustling their cloaks and the branches of the trees like shaken
bedding.  Bremen led them swiftly, steadily on, the pace belying his
age and challenging theirs.  Kinson and Mareth exchanged glances.  The
Druid had tapped into a hidden reservoir of strength.  He had turned as
hard and unyielding as iron.

It was not yet dawn when they reached Paranor.  They slowed as the
fortress came into view, materializing through breaks in the trees,
lifting toward the starlit heavens, a massive black husk.  Still, no
light shone.  Still, there was no sound or movement from within.
Bremen stopped the Borderman and the Healer where they were hidden by
the forest shadows.  Silent, stone-faced, he scanned the walls and
parapets of the Keep.  Then, staying within the concealment of the
woods, he took them left about the castle perimeter.  The wind whipped
across the battlements and around the spiraling towers in a mournful
howl.  Within the trees where they crept, it was a giant's breath that
warned of its owner's approach.  Kinson was sweating freely, his nerves
on edge, his breathing harsh in his lungs.

They arrived at the main gates and stopped once more.  The gates stood
open, the portcullis raised, the entry left black and gaping and
vaguely reminiscent of a mouth frozen in a death scream.

There were bodies by the shattered doors, twisted and lifeless.

Bremen hunched forward in concentration, staring at the Keep, but not
really seeing it, looking somewhere beyond.  His gray hair whipped
about his head, as wispy as corn silk.  His mouth moved.  Kinson
reached beneath his cloak and pulled forth his short sword.  Mareth's
eyes were wide and dark, and her small body rigid, poised to bolt.

Then Bremen took them forward.  They crossed the open space separating
the forest from the Keep, walking slowly, steadily, not bothering to
hurry or conceal their approach.
Kinson's eyes flicked left and right apprehensively, but Bremen did not
seem concerned.  They reached the gates and the dead men, and stooped
to identify them.  Druid Guards, most of them looking as if they had
been torn apart by animals.  Blood stained the ground beneath them,
soaked from their bodies.  Their weapons were drawn; many were
shattered.  They looked to have fought hard.

Bremen moved into the shadow of the wall, past the sagging gates and
raised portcullis, and there he found Caerid Lock.
The Captain of the Druid Guard was slumped against the watchtower door,
blood dried and crusted on his face, his body pierced and slashed in a
dozen places.  He was still alive.  His eyes flickered open, and his
mouth moved.  Hurriedly, Bremen bent to listen.  Kinson could hear
nothing, the wind obscuring the words.


The old man looked up.  "Mareth," he called softly.

She came at once, bending over Caerid Lock.  She did not need to be
told what was required.  Her hands ran quickly over the wounded man's
body, searching for ways to help.  But she was too late.  Not even an
empath could save Caerid now.

Bremen pulled Kinson down so that the two were huddled close, their
faces almost touching.  About them, the wind con tinued to howl softly
as it twisted and turned about the walls.
"Caerid said Paranor was betrayed from within, at night, while most
slept.  Three Druids were responsible.  Everyone was killed but them.
The Warlock Lord left them to deal with us.  They are inside,
somewhere.  Caerid dragged himself here, but could go no further."

"You are not going in there?"  Kinson asked hurriedly.

"I must.  I must secure the Eilt Druin."  The old man's seamed face was
set and his eyes were hard and angry.  "You and Mareth will wait for me
here."

Kinson shook his head stubbornly.  Dust and grit blew into his eyes as
the wind whipped through the dark opening.  "This is foolish, Bremen!
You will need our help!"

"if something happens to me, I will need you to get word to the
others!"  Bremen refused to yield.  "Do as I say, Kinson!"

Then he was on his feet and moving away, a ragged bundle of stick limbs
and blowing robes, hastening from the gates and across the courtyard to
the inner wall.  In seconds, he had passed through a doorway and was
lost from view.

Kinson stared after him in frustration.  "Shades!"  he muttered,
furious at his own indecision.

He glanced over at Mareth.  The young woman was closing Caerid Lock's
eyes.  The Captain of the Druid Guard was dead.
It was a miracle, Kinson thought, that he had lasted this long.
Any of his wounds would have finished a normal man on the spot.
That he had lived until now was a testament to his toughness and
determination.

Mareth was on her feet, looking down at him.  "Come on," she said.
"We're going after him."

Kinson stood up quickly.  "But he said 


"I know what he said.  But if
anything happens to Bremen, what difference do you think it will make
whether we get word to the others or not?"

His lips compressed in a tight line.  "What difference, indeed?"

Together they hurried across the empty, windswept court yard toward the
Keep.

WITHIN PARANOR, Bremen moved swiftly down the empty halls, as silent as
a cloud crossing the sky.  He explored as he went, attuned to the
tastes and smells and sounds of the Keep.  He reached out with his
senses and instincts to uncover the danger of which Caerid Lock had
warned, wary of its presence and in tent.  But he could not find it.
Either it was very well concealed or it had departed.

Be cautious, he urged himself.  Be alert.

Everyone within the Keep was dead-of that much he was certain.
All of the Druids, all of their guards, all who had lived and worked
and studied here for so many years, all those he had left behind just
four days ago.  The shock of it was like a blow to the stomach! it took
the wind and the strength from him and left him numb with disbelief.
All dead.  He had known it could happen, had believed it possible, had
even seen the vision of it.  But the reality was much worse.  Bodies
lay strewn everywhere, twisted in death.  Some had died by the
sword.

Some had been torn apart.  Some, he sensed, had been taken to the lower
depths of the Keep and killed there.  But none had survived.  No
heartbeat reached his ears.  No voice called.  No living thing
stirred.
Paranor was a charnel house.  It was a tomb.

He worked his way through the echoing corridors to the Assembly and
there found Athabasca, his face frozen with the moment of his death,
his corpse a sad and ruined thing.  Bremen stooped to look for the Eilt
Druin and did not find it.  He straightened and paused.  He felt only
sadness for the High Druid, only regret.  Seeing him thus, seeing all
of them dead and the castle of the Druids empty, made him wish he had
tried harder in his efforts to persuade them of the danger.
Guilt washed through him.  He could not help himself.  He was in some
way to blame for this.  His was the knowledge and the power, and he had
failed to use either in a convincing way.  This was the result.  He
drew Athabasca's robes across his face and walked away.

He climbed then to the library, keeping his back to the wall as he
moved through the castle's dead shell, listening for the betraying
sounds of danger, cautious and alert.  It was here, the danger of which
Caerid Lock and the vision both had warned.

The traitor Druids, in some form, waiting.  So be it.  But the Warlock
Lord was gone, and his creatures with him.  The cauldron of magic that
had been stirred with their coming Bremen's trip wire set in place
within the Druid Well-had bubbled and boiled just enough to cause them
to fear and to persuade them not to linger.  Listening, he could hear
it now, a faint hiss, the magic sunk back within the pit, the magic
that gave life to the Keep, that gave power to most of the Druid
spells.  Vast and mercurial, it gave back only a portion of what it
promised, and that so small it paled in the face of Brona's monstrous
power.  Still, it had served its purpose this once, driving the rebel
Druid from the Keep.

Bremen sighed.  There was no pleasure to be taken from so small a
victory.  Brona had his revenge, and that was what mattered.  He had
destroyed those who had opposed him, who would have challenged him, and
he had savaged their safehold.

Now there was no one to stop him save one old man and a handful of
followers.

Perhaps.  Perhaps.

He reached the library and found Kahle Rese.  He cried silently on
seeing him, unable to help himself.  He covered his old friend as well,
unable to look upon him more than once, and went through the hidden
doorway to the room in which the Druid Histories were concealed.  The
room was empty of everything but the worktable and chairs, and the dust
that Bremen had given Kahle as a last resort lay scattered on the
floor, dull now and lifeless, evidence that it had been put to the use
for which it was intended.  Bremen tried momentarily to see Kahle in
those last few moments of his life.  He could not manage it.  It was
enough to know that the Druid Histories were safe.  That would have to
serve as his old friend's epitaph.

He heard something then, a sound that came from some where far below, a
sound so soft that he detected it with his instincts rather than his
ears.  He hastened from the room, sensing that whatever time had been
allotted him in Paranor was run rung out.  He must find the Eilt Druin
now.  Locating the medallion was all that was left.
Athabasca had not been wearing it.  It might have been taken from his
body, but Bremen did not think so.  The attack had come at night,
Caerid Lock had said, and no one had been ready.  Athabasca would have
been roused from his bed.  He would not have taken time to put on the
medallion.

It was probably in his chambers.

Bremen climbed the stairs to the High Druid's office, a soundless,
voiceless ghost among the dead.  He felt as if he had no weight, no
substance, no presence.  He was inconsequential, a madman playing with
fire and having no cure for the burns it was sure to inflict.  He felt
tired, lost to his fears for the world.
It was such a hopeless task he had set himself-creating a magic,
forging a talisman to contain it, finding a champion to wield it.  What
chance did he have to accomplish all this?
What hope?

He found the door to Athabasca's rooms open and entered cautiously.  He
scanned the shelves and desktop without result.
He opened doors to cabinets and files and found nothing.  Fearful now
that he had come too late even for the medallion, he hastened into the
High Druid's bedchamber.

There, sprawled on a night table, forgotten in the rush that had
carried Athabasca from his sleep to his death, was the Eilt Druin.

Bremen picked it up and examined it, making sure it was real.  The
burnished metal glimmered back at him.  He ran his fingers over the
raised surface of hand and burning torch.  Then he tucked it quickly
into his robes and hurried from the room.

He went down the corridors and stairs once more, still ustening and
watching, still wary.  He had gotten this far without encountering
anything.  Perhaps he could slip past whatever had been set at watch.
Cloud silent, he eased through the gloom and the dead, past shadows
pooling in narrow corners and bodies flung through doorways and across
stone floors.  He caught sight suddenly of a faint brightening in the
sky east, visible through tall, latticed glass windows.  Night was
fading, the dawn at hand.  Bremen breathed deeply of the musty, stale
air, and longed for the smell and taste of the green forest beyond.

He reached the main stairway and started down.  He was midway between
floors when he caught sight of movement on the broad landing below.  He
slowed, stopped, and waited.  The movement detached itself from the
shadows, a new kind of shadow, a different form.  The thing that showed
itself was human, but only vaguely.  Arms, legs, torso, and head, all
were covered in thick black hair, bristling and stiff, all crooked and
bent like bramble wood, elongated and misshapen.  There were claws and
teeth that glimmered like the jagged ends of old bones, and eyes that
flickered with bits of crimson and green.

The thing whispered to him, called out to him, begged and wheedled with
a wretchedness that was palpable.


Breeemen, Breeemen, Breeemen.

The old man glanced quickly to the upper landing, also visible within
the wide, open stairwell, and another of the creatures appeared, a
mirror image of the first, creeping from the gloom.

Breeemen, Breeemen, Breeemen.

Both came onto the stairs, one ascending, one descending.
They had trapped him between them.  There were no doors leading off,
there was no way to go but up or down, past one or the other.
They had waited him out, he realized.  They had let him go about his
business, let him collect what he chose, then closed in on him.  The
Warlock Lord had planned it thus, wanting to know what was important
enough to bring him back, what treasure, what bit of magic could be
precious enough to salvage.  Find out, the Warlock Lord had ordered,
then steal it from his lifeless body and bring it to me.

Bremen looked from one to the other.  Druids once, these creatures, now
altered into unspeakable things.  Ravers, berserkers, beings
stripped of their humanity and made over so that they might serve one
last purpose.  It was difficult to feel sorrow for them.
They had been human enough when they had betrayed the Keep and its
occupants.  They had been free enough to choose then.

But there were supposed to be three, he realized suddenly.
Where was the third?

Warned by a sixth sense, by instincts honed to a fine edge, he looked
up just as it dropped from its hiding place in a stone niche in the
stairwell wall.  He flung himself aside, and it thudded to the stairs
with a snapping of broken bones.  Still, it didn't quit.  It rose in a
flurry of teeth and claws, shrieking and spitting, and launched itself
at him.  Bremen acted instinctively, throwing up the Druid fire that
served as his defense in a blue Curtain that engulfed the creature.
Even then, it did not stop.  It came on, burning, the black hair of its
body flaring like a torch, the skin beneath peeling and melting away.
Bremen struck at it again, frightened now, amazed that it could still
stand.  The thing careered into him, and he twisted away, falling back
upon the stairs, kicking out in desperation.

Then, at last, the creature's strength failed.  It lost its footing and
tumbled away, rolling to the edge of the stairwell and dropping from
view, a bright flare in the inky black.

Bremen lurched to his feet, singed by flames and raked by the
creature's claws.  The other two attackers continued their approach
with slow, mincing steps, like cats at play.  Bremen tried to call up
his magic in defense, but he had exhausted himself defending against
the first attack.  Startled by its ferocity, he had used too much of
his strength.  Now he had almost nothing left.

The creatures seemed to know this.  They eased smoothly toward him,
mewling anxiously.

Bremen put his back to the stairwell wall and watched them come.

AS HE DID so, Kinson and Mareth crept silently through the corridors of
the Keep, searching for him.  The dead lay every where, but there was
no sign of the old man.  Though they watched and listened for his
passing, they could detect nothing.
Kinson was growing worried.  If there was
something evil hidden within the Keep, waiting for intruders, it might
find them first.  It might find them before they found Bremen, and
Bremen would be forced to come to their rescue.  Or had the Druid all
ready fallen victim without their hearing?  Were they already too
late?

He should never have let Bremen go on alone!

They passed through the bodies of the Druid Guard who had made their
last stand at the top of the stairs on the Keep's second level, and
continued up.  Still nothing showed itself.  The stairs wound upward
into the black, endless in number.  Mareth was pressed against the
wall, trying to get a better look at what lay ahead.  Kinson kept
glancing behind them, thinking an at tack would come from there.  His
face and hands were slippery with sweat.

Where was Bremen?

Then something stirred on the next landing up, a faint altering of
light, a detaching of shadows.  Kinson and Mareth froze.
An odd whispery wail drifted down to where they stood.

Breeemen, Breeemen, Breeemen.

They glanced at each other, then cautiously eased ahead.

Something dropped onto the stairs above them, a heavy body, too far
away yet to see, but close enough to imagine.  Blue fire exploded
through the darkness.  Shrieks rang out, and bodies thudded.  Seconds
later, a flaming ball hurtled over the edge of the stairs and fell past
them, a living thing, if only barely, thrashing in agony as it crashed
to the floor below.

Caution forgotten, Mareth and Kinson charged ahead.  As they climbed,
they caught sight of Bremen higher up on the stairs, trapped between
two hideous creatures that were advancing on him from the landings
above and below.  The old man was bloodied and burned and clearly
exhausted.  Druid fire flared at his fingertips, but would not
ignite.
The creatures who stalked him were taking their time.

All three turned at the approach of the Borderman and the girl,
startled.

"No!  Go back!"  Bremen cried on seeing them.

But Mareth raced up the stairs and onto the lower landing with a sudden
burst of speed, leaving a surprised Kinson be hind.  She planted her
feet and hunched down within her clothing like a coiled spring.
Her hands came up, her arms stretched wide, and her palms turned upward
as if to beseech help from the heavens.  Kinson exhaled in dismay and
rushed after her.
What was she doing?  The monster closest to the girl hissed in warning,
whirled, and came at her, bounding down the stairs as swift as thought,
claws extended.  Kinson cried out in anger.
He was still too far away!

Then Mareth simply exploded.  There was a huge, booming cough, and the
shock wave threw Kinson against the wall.  He lost sight of Mareth,
Bremen, and the creatures.  Fire burst up ward from where Mareth had
been standing, a blue streak that burned white-hot.  It ripped into the
closest creature and tore it apart.  Then it found the second, where it
was closing on Bremen, and bore it away, a leaf upon the wind.  The
creature shrieked in dismay and was consumed.  The fire raced on,
burning along the stone walls and stairs, swallowing the air and
turning it to smoke.

Kinson shielded his eyes and struggled to his feet.  The fire
disappeared, gone in an instant.  Only the smoke remained, thick clouds
of it filling the stairwell.  Kinson charged up the steps and found
Mareth collapsed on the landing.  He lifted her, cradling her limp
body.  What had happened to her?  What had she done?  She was as light
as a feather, her small features pale and streaked with soot, her short
dark hair a damp helmet about her face.  Her eyes were half-closed and
staring.  Through the slits, he could see they had turned white.  He
bent close.
She didn't seem to be breathing.  He couldn't find a pulse.

Bremen appeared abruptly before him, materializing out of the haze,
disheveled and wild-eyed.  "Take her out of here!"  he shouted.

"But I don't think she's he tried to argue.

Quick, Kinson!"  Bremen cut him short.  "Now, if you want to save
her, get out of the Keep!  Go!"

Kinson turned without a word and hastened down the stairs, Mareth in
his arms, Bremen trailing in a ragged swirl of torn robes.  Down
through the Keep they stumbled, coughing and choking on the smoke, eyes
tearing.  Then Bremen heard some thing rumbling in the earth beneath.

It was the sound of some thing waking, something huge and angry,
something so vast it was unimaginable.

"Run!"  Bremen cried once more, needlessly.

Together, the Borderman and the Druid fled through the smoky gloom of
dead Paranor toward daylight and life.

THE SEARCH FOR THE BLACK ELFSTONE

CHAPTER 8

AFTER LEAVING BREMEN, Tay Trefenwyd proceeded west along the Mermidon
through the mountains that formed the southern arm of the Dragon's
Teeth.  Sunset arrived, and he camped for the night still within their
shelter, then set out again at daybreak.  The new day was clear and
mild, last night's winds having swept the land clean, the sun
dazzling.
The Elf worked his way down out of the foothills to the grasslands
below the Streleheim and prepared to cross.
Ahead, he could see the forests of the Westland, and beyond, their tips
coated in white, the peaks of the Rock Spur.  Arborlon was another
day's walk, so he traveled at a leisurely pace, his thoughts occupied
by all that had happened since Bremen's arrival at Paranor.

Tay Trefenwyd had known Bremen for almost fifteen years, longer even
than Risca.  He had met him at Paranor, before his banishment, Tay
newly arrived from Arborlon, a Druid in training.  Bremen had been old
even then, but with a harder edge to his personality and a sharper
tongue as well.  Bremen in those days had been a firebrand burning with
truths self-evident to him but incomprehensible to everyone else.  The
Druids at Paranor had dismissed him as being just this side of mad.

Kahle Rese and one or two others valued his friendship and listened
patiently to what he had to say, but the rest mostly looked for ways to
avoid him.

Not Tay.  From the first moment they met, Tay had been mesmerized.

Here was someone who believed it was important-even necessary-to do
more than talk about the problems of the Four Lands.  It wasn't
sufficient simply to study and converse on issues; it was necessary to
act on them as well.  Bremen believed that the old ways were better,
that the Druids of the First Council had been right in involving
themselves in the progress of the Races.  Noninvolvement was a mistake
that would end up costing everyone dearly.  Tay understood and
believed.  Like Bremen, he studied the old lore, the ways of the faerie
creatures, and the uses of magic in the world before the Great
Wars.  Like Bremen, he accepted that power once sub verted was twice as
deadly, and that the rebel Druid Brona lived on in another form and
would return again to subvert the Four Lands.  It was an unpopular and
dangerous view, and in the end it cost Bremen his place among the
Druids.

But before that happened, he made an ally of Tay.  The two formed an
immediate bond, and the older man took the younger for his pupil, a
teacher with a store of knowledge so vast that it defied cataloging.
Tay did the tasks and completed the studies that were assigned him by
the Council and his elders, but his spare time and enthusiasm were
reserved almost exclusively for Bremen.  Though exposed from an early
age to the peculiar history and lore of their race, few of the Elves
at Paranor who had taken up the Druid pledge were as open as Tay to the
possibilities that Bremen suggested.  But then, few were as talented.
Tay had begun to master his magic skills even before he arrived at
Paranor, but under Bremen's tutelage he progressed so rapidly that soon
no one, save his mentor, was his equal.  Even Risca, after his arrival,
never reached the level that Tay attained, too wedded, perhaps, to his
martial skills to embrace fully the concept that magic was an even more
potent weapon.

Those first five years were exciting ones for the young Elf, and his
thinking was shaped irrevocably by what he learned.
Most of the skills he mastered and the knowledge he gained he kept
secret, forced to do so by the Druid ban against personal involvement
in the use of magic except as an abstract study.
Bremen thought the ban foolish and misguided, but he was in the
minority always, and at Paranor the Council's decisions governed
all.
So Tay studied privately the lore that Bremen was willing to share,
keeping it close to his heart and concealed from other eyes.  When
Bremen was exiled and chose to travel west to the Elves to pursue his
studies there, Tay asked to go, too.  But Bremen said no, not
forbidding, but requesting that he reconsider.  Risca was of a like
mind, but for both there were more important tasks, the old man
argued.
Stay at Paranor and be my eyes and ears.  Work to master your skills
and to persuade others that the danger of which I have warned is
real.
When it is time for you to leave, I will come back for you.

So he had, five days earlier-and Tay and Risca and the young Healer
Mareth had escaped in time.  But the others, all those he had tried to
convince, all those who had doubted and scorned, probably had not.  Tay
did not know for certain, of course, but he felt in his heart that the
vision Bremen had revealed to them had already come to pass.
It would be days be fore the Elves could verify the truth, but Tay
believed that the Druids were gone.

Either way, his leaving with Bremen marked the end of his time at
Paranor.  Whether the Druids were dead or alive, he would not return
now.  His place was out in the world, doing the things that Bremen had
argued they must do if the Races were to survive.  The Warlock Lord had
come out of hiding, revealed to those who had eyes to see and
instincts to heed, and he was coming south.  The Northland and the
Trolls were his all ready, and now he would attempt to subjugate the
other Races.
So each of them-Bremen, Risca, Mareth, Kinson Ravenlock, and
himself-must be held accountable.  Each must stand and fight on what
ground was given.

His was the Westland, his home.  He was returning for the first time in
almost five years.  His father had died in that time.  His younger
brother had married and moved into the Sarandanon.  His sister's second
child had been born.  Lives had changed while he was away, and he would
be coming back into a world different from the one he had left.  More
to the point, he would be bringing change to it that dwarfed anything
that had occurred in his absence.  It was the beginning of change for
all the lands, and there were many who would not welcome it.
He would not be well received when it was known why he had come.
He would have to approach things cautiously.  He would have to choose
his friends and his ground well.

But Tay Trefenwyd was good at that.  He was an affable, easygoing man
who cared about the problems of others and had always done his best to
give what help he could.  He was not confrontational like Risca or
stubborn like Bremen.  While at Paranor, he had been genuinely well
liked, even given his association with the other two.  Tay was
governed by strong beliefs and an unmatched work ethic, but he did not
hold himself up to others as an example of how to be.  Tay accepted
people as they were, isolating what was good and finding ways to make
use of it.  Even Athabasca had not quarreled with him, seeing in Tay
what he hoped was hidden even in the most troublesome of his friends.
Tay's big hands were as strong as iron, but his heart was gentle.  No
one ever mistook his kindness for weakness, and Tay never let the first
suggest the second.  Tay knew when to stand his ground and when to
yield.  He was a conciliator and a compromiser of the first order, and
he would need those skills in the days ahead.

He ran over the list of what he must accomplish, laying out each item,
one by one.

He must persuade his king, Courtann Ballindarroch, to mount a search
for the Black Elfstone.

He must persuade his king to send his armies in support of the
Dwarves.

He must convince him that the Four Lands were about to be altered by
circumstance and events in a way that would change them all irrevocably
and forever.

He strode across the open grasslands thinking of what this meant,
heading north and west toward the forestlands that marked the eastern
boundary of his country, smiling easily, whistling a tune.  He did not
yet know how he was going to accomplish any of this, but that didn't
matter.  He would find a way.  Bremen was counting on him.  Tay did not
intend to let him down.

The daylight hours slipped away, and the sun passed west into the
distant mountains and disappeared.  Tay left the Mermidon at the edge
of the Westland forests below the Pykon and turned north.  Because it
was night and he could no longer see well on the flats, he stayed
within the concealment of the trees as he continued on.  His skills as
a Druid aided him.  Tay was an elementalist, a student of the ways in
which magic and science interacted to balance the principal components
of his world-earth, air, fire, and water.  He had developed an
understanding of their symbiosis, the ways in which they related to each
other, the ways they worked together to maintain and further life, and
the ways they protected each other when disturbed.  Tay had mastered
the rules for changing one to the other, for using one to destroy the
other, for using any to give life to another.  His talents had grown
quite specialized.  He could read movement and detect presence from the
elements.
He could sense thoughts.  On a broad basis, he could reconfigure
history and predict the future.  It wasn't the same as haveing a
vision.  It wasn't linked to the dead or to the spiritual.  It was tied
instead to earth laws, to the power lines that encircled the world and
tied all things together with linkage of acts and counteracts, of cause
and effect, of choice and consequence.  A stone thrown into a still
pond produced ripples.  So, too, everything that happened to shift the
world's balance, no matter how smmall, resulted in change.  Tay had
learned to read those changes and to intuit what they meant.

So now, as he walked in the shadow of the forest night, he read in the
movement of the wind and the smells still clinging to the trees and the
vibrations borne on the surface of the earth that a large party of
Gnomes had passed this way earlier and now waited somewhere ahead.  He
tasted their presence more strongly the farther along he went.  He
eased deeper into the trees, listening for them, reaching down
periodically to touch the earth in search of their lingering body heat,
the magic that served him rising within his chest in small, feathery
trailers that flowed outward to his fingertips.

Then he slowed and went still, sensing something new.  He held himself
perfectly still, waiting.  A chill settled deep inside, an unmistakable
warning of what it was that he had sensed, of what it was that
approached.  A moment later it appeared in the sky overhead, just
visible through breaks in the trees, one of the winged hunters, the
Skull Bearers that served the Warlock Lord.
It soared slowly, heavily across the velvet back, hunting, but not for
anything in particular.  Tay held himself in place, resisting the
natural impulse to bolt, calming himself so that the other
could not detect him.  The Skull Bearer circled and came back, winged
form hanging against the stars.  Tay slowed his breathing, his
heartbeat, his pulse.  He disappeared into the still darkness of the
forest.

Finally the creature moved on, flying north.  To join those it
commanded, Tay reasoned.  It was not a good sign that the Warlock
Lord's minions were this far south, daring to nudge up against the
kingdom of the Elves.  It strengthened the likelihood that the Druids
were no longer perceived as a threat.  It suggested that the long
anticipated invasion of the Warlock Lord was at hand.

He took a deep breath and held it.  What if Bremen had been wrong, and
the invasion was to be directed not at the Dwarves, but at the Elves?

He mulled over the possibility as he proceeded on, still searching for
the Gnomes.  He found them twenty minutes later, camped within the
fringe of Drey Wood.  There were no fires in the camp and sentries at
every turn.  The Skull Bearer circled overhead.  A raiding party of
some sort, but Tay could not imagine what they were after.  There was
not much to raid this close to the grasslands save a few isolated
homesteads, and the in truders would hardly be interested in those.
Still, it was not comforting to find Eastland Gnomes, let alone a Skull
Bearer, this far west and so close to Arborlon.  He eased ahead until
he could see them clearly, watched them for a time to see if he could
detect anything, failed in his attempt, took a careful head count, and
eased away again.  He retraced his steps a safe distance, found a
secluded stand of fir, crawled beneath the sheltering boughs, and fell
asleep.


It was morning when he woke, and the Gnomes were gone.
He checked carefully for them from within his shelter, then emerged and
walked to their camp.  Their footprints led west into Drey Wood.  The
Skull Bearer had gone with them.

He debated going after them, then decided against it.  He had enough to
deal with at this point without taking on anything else.
Besides, where there was one raiding party there were likely others,
and it was important to alert the Elves to their presence as quickly as
possible.

So Tay continued north, staying back within the trees, his long strides
eating up the distance.  It was not yet noon when he reached the Valley
of Rhenn and turned west down its long, broad corridor.  The Rhenn was
the doorway to Arborlon and the west, and the Elves would be at watch at
its far end.  e eastern exposure was inviting, a gentle stretch of
grasslands spread between two clusters of low foothills.
But the valley quickly narrowed, the floor sloped upward, and the hills
rose to become steep bluffs.  By the time you reached the other end,
you were looking into the jaws of a vise.  The Rhenn provided the Elves
with a natural defensive position against an army approaching from
anywhere east.  Because the forests were thick and the terrain
mountainous coming down from the north or up from the south, the Rhenn
was the only way into or out of the Westland for any sizable force.

It was always guarded, of course, and Tay knew that he would be met.
He didn't have long to wait.  He was barely half way down the valley's
green corridor when Elven horsemen thundered out of the pass ahead to
challenge him, reining in with shouts of recognition as they neared.
The riders knew him, and he was greeted warmly.  He was given a horse
and taken up through the pass to the Elven camp, where the watch 
commander sent word of his coming to Arborlon.  He told the commander
about the raiding party, mentioning the Gnomes but not the Skull
Bearer, preferring to save that information for Ballindarroch.  The
commander had received no report of Gnomes and immediately dispatched
riders south to make a search.  The commander then ordered food and
drink for Tay and sat with him while he ate, answering his questions
about Arborlon and bringing him up to date on events about which he
asked.

The talk was casual and passed quickly.  There were rumors of Troll
movements on the Streleheim, but nothing definite.  No sightings had
been reported this far south.  Tay avoided mention of anything
concerning the Warlock Lord or Paranor.  When he was done with his
meal, he asked to go on.  The commander provided him with a horse and a
two-man escort.  He accepted the former, declined the latter, and was
on his way once more.


He rode from the valley toward Arborlon, lost in thought.
Rumors, no sightings.  Ghosts and shadows.  The Warlock Lord was as
elusive as smoke.  But Tay had seen the Skull Bearer and the Gnomes,
and Bremen had seen the Warlock Lord at his safehold in the Northland,
and they were real enough.
Bremen seemed certain of what was about to happen, so now it was up to
Tay to find a way to persuade the Elves that it was so.

The road he followed wound through the Westland forests with serpentine
precision, avoiding the thick stands of old growth, sidling past small
lakes and along winding streams, rising and falling with the lay of the
land.  Sunlight dappled the woods, streaking the tall trunks and stands
of tiny wildflowers, long fingers of light amid the shadows.
Like banners and pennants, they welcomed Tay Trefenwyd home again.
The Elf shrugged off his cloak in response, feeling the sun fall like a
warm mantle across his broad shoulders.

He encountered other travelers on the roadway, men and women journeying
between villages and homes, traders and craftsmen bound for jobs in
other places.  Some nodded or waved in greeting; some simply passed him
by.  But all were Elves, and he had not been in a place where the
people were his own for a long time.  It seemed strange to him now-so
many like himself and no others.

He was nearing Arborlon in the languid, slow hours of mid afternoon,
the heat of the late spring day heavy and insistent even within the
cool forest, when a horseman appeared ahead of him.  The newcomer rode
out of a shimmer of light at the crest of a rise and bore down on him
at a gallop, his cloak whipping and his hair blowing.  One hand waved
vigorously and a riotous cry of greeting broke the silence.
Tay knew him at once.  A huge smile widened on his face, and he waved
back eagerly, spurring his own mount ahead.  The two met in a swirling
cloud of dust, reining in their horses and jumping down, racing to
embrace each other.

"Tay Trefenwyd, as I live and breathe!"

The newcomer wrapped his arms around the tall, lanky Tay and lifted him
like a child, swinging him once about and then setting him down again
with a grunt.

"Shades!"  he roared.  "You must do nothing but eat while you're
away!
You're as heavy as any horse!"

Tay clasped his best friend's hand.  "it isn't me who's grown heavy!
It's you who's grown weak!  Layabout!"


The other's hand tightened in response.  "Welcome home, anyway.  I have
missed you!"

Tay stepped back for a good, long look.  Like all those he had left
behind in Arborlon, it had been five years since he had seen Jerle
Shannara, He had missed Jerle the most, he supposed, even more so than
the members of his family.  For this was his oldest friend, his
constant companion while they were boys growing up together in the
Westland, the one person to whom he could tell anything, the one to
whom he would entrust his life.  The bonds had been formed early and
had survived even the years the two had spent apart while Tay was at
Paranor and Jerle had remained behind, Courtann Ballindarroch's first
cousin, his service to the throne predetermined from his birth.

Jerle Shannara was born a warrior.  He was physically imposing for an
Elf, big and strong-limbed, with cat-quick reflexes that belied his
size, and a fighter's instincts.  He was training with weapons almost
from the time he could walk, in love with combat, enthralled by the
excitement and challenge of battle.  But there was a great deal more to
him than strength and size.  He was quick.  He was cunning.  He was a
relentless adversary.  His work ethic was prodigious.  He never
expected less from himself than the best he had to offer, no matter the
importance of the task, no matter if anyone was there to see.  But
most important of all, Jerle Shannara was fearless.  It was in his
blood or in the way he grew or perhaps in both, but Tay had never known
his friend to back down from anything.

They made an odd pair, he reflected.  Of similar size and look, both
larger than average, blond and long-limbed, and reared with high
expectations from their families, they were nevertheless entirely
different.  Tay was easygoing and always the compromiser in difficult
situations; jerle was quick-tempered and confrontational and
maddeningly unwilling to back down in any dispute.  Tay was cerebral,
intrigued by difficult questions and complicated puzzles that
challenged and confused; Jerle was physical, preferring the challenge
of sports and combat, relying on quick answers and intuition.  Tay
always knew he wanted to travel and study with the Druids at Paranor;
Jerle allways knew he wanted to become Captain of the Home Guard, the
elite unit of Elven Hunters that protected the king and his family.
They were different personalities with different intents and goals, yet
something of who and what they were bound them together as surely as
ties of blood or the dictates of fate.

"So you're back," Jerle announced, releasing Tay and stepping clear.
He brushed at his curly blond hair with one massive hand and gave his
friend a rakish smile.  "Have you come to your senses at last?
How long will you stay?"


"I don't know.  But I won't be going back to Paranor.  Things have
changed."

The other's smile dimmed.  "is that so?  Tell me about it."

"All in good time.  But let me do it in my own way.  I am here for a
specific purpose.  Bremen sent me."

"Then it must be serious, indeed."  Jerle knew the Druid from his time
in Arborlon.  He paused.  "Does it involve this creature they call the
Warlock Lord?"

"You were always quick.  Yes, it does.  He marches south with his
armies to attack the Dwarves.  Did you know?"

"There are rumors of Troll movement on the Streleheim.  We thought they
might march west against us."

"The Dwarves first, you later.  I am sent to persuade Courtann
Ballindarroch to send the Elves to lend their support.  I will need
help in this, I expect."

Jerle Shannara reached for his horse's reins.  "Let's move off the
roadway and sit in the shade while we talk.  Do you mind if we don't
continue on to the city just yet?"

"I would rather speak to you alone, first."

"Good.  You look more like your sister every time I see you."
They walked their mounts into the trees and tied them to a slender
ash.
"That's a compliment, you know."

"I do."  Tay smiled.  "How is she?"

"Happy, settled, content with her family."  Jerle gave him a wistful
look.  "She did well enough without me, after all."

"Kira was never for you.  You know that as well as I. Look at how you
live.  What would you do in her life?  What would she do in yours?

You have nothing in common but your childhood."

Jerle snorted.  "That's true of us as well, yet we remain close."

"Close is not married.  And it's different with us."

Tay settled himself on the grass, long legs folded before him.
Jerle hunkered down on a stump worn smooth by time and weather and
looked at his boots as if he had never seen them before.  His
sun-browned hands were crisscrossed with white scars and small red
nicks and scratches.  Tay could not rememher a time when they hadn't
looked like that.

"Are you still Captain of the Home Guard?"  he asked his friend.

Jerle shook his head.  "I'm considered too important for that these
days.  I am Courtann's chief advisor in military matters.
His defacto general, second-guessing all the real generals.  Not that
it matters much just now, since we're not at war with any one.
But I suppose all that could change, couldn't it?"

"Bremen believes that the Warlock Lord will attempt to subjugate the
other Races, beginning with the Dwarves and then moving on.  The Troll
army is powerful.  If the Races do not join together to stand against
it, they will be overwhelmed, one by one."

"But the Druids won't let that happen.  Moribund as they are these
days-no offense, Tay-they wouldn't stand still for that."

"Bremen thinks that Paranor has fallen and the Druids have been
destroyed."

Jerle Shannara straightened slightly, his mouth tightening in response
to the news.  "When did this happen?  We've heard nothing."

"A day or two ago at most.  Bremen went back to Paranor to make
certain, but sent me to Arborlon, so I can't be sure.  It would help if
you would send someone to see if it's true before I speak with the
king.  Someone dependable."

"I will do that."  The other shook his head slowly.  "All the Druids
are gone?  All of them?"

"All but Bremen, myself, a Dwarf named Risca, and a young woman from
Storlock who is still in training.  We left Paranor together before the
attack.  Maybe someone else escaped later."

Jerle gave him a sharp look.  "So you've come back to warn us, to tell
us of Paranor's fall and to ask for help against the Warlock Lord and
his Troll armies?"

"And one thing more.  One very important thing.  This is where I need
your help the most, Jerle.  There is a Black Elf stone, a magic of
great power.  This Elfstone is more dangerous than all the others, and
it has been hidden since the time of faerie in the Breakline.  Bremen
has uncovered clues as to where it might be found, but the Warlock Lord
and his creatures search for it as well.  We must find it first.  I
intend to ask the king to mount an expedition.  But he might be more
disposed to grant the request if it came from you."

Jerle laughed, a big, booming howl.  "is that what you think?
That I can help?  I wouldn't stand too close to me if I were you!
I've stepped on Courtann's toes a time or two of late, and I don't
think he holds me in very high regard at the moment!  Oh, he likes my
advice on troop movement and defensive strategy well enough, but that
is about as far as it goes!"  His laugh died away, and he wiped at his
eyes.  "Ah, well, I'll do what I can."  He chuckled.  "You make life
interesting, Tay.  You always did."

Tay smiled.  "Life makes itself interesting.  Like you, I'm just along
for the ride."

Jerle Shannara reached across, and they clasped hands
once more, holding the grip firm for a long moment.  Tay could feel the
other's great strength, and it seemed as if he could draw from it
something of his own.

Still maintaining the grip, he rose to his feet and pulled his friend
up with him.  "We had better get started," he advised.

The other nodded, and the smile he offered was bold and confident and
filled with mischief.  "You and me, Tay," he said.
"The two of us, just like it used to be.  This is going to be fun."

He meant something else entirely, of course, but Tay Trefenwyd supposed
he understood.

CHAPTER 9

ONCE ARRIVED in ARBORLON, Tay spent his time visiting with family and
friends while he waited impatiently for confirmation from Jerle
Shannara that Paranor and the Druids had fallen.  His friend reassured
him on parting that someone would be sent at once to discover if
Bremen's suspicions were correct.  When that was done, a meeting with
the Elf King, Courtann Ballindarroch, and the Elven High Council would
be arranged.  Tay would be given a chance to make his plea for help for
the Dwarves and for a search for the Black Elfstone.  Jerle promised to
stand with him.  For now, neither would say or do anything further
about the matter.

This was difficult for Tay, who recalled vividly the urgency in
Bremen's admonition to seek Ballindarroch's help.  The old man's voice
whispered to him in the scrape of shoes on loose stone, in the voices
of strangers he could not see, and even in his dreams.  But Bremen did
not himself appear or send news of any sort, and Tay knew that there
was nothing to be gained by speaking out until word of Paranor's
condition had been received.  Formal announcement of Ballindarroch's
pleasure at hearing of his return arrived almost at once, but no
summons to appear before the king or High Council accompanied it.  By
all but Jerle Shannara, Tay's return to Arborlon was thought to be
solely a visit to family and friends.

Tay stayed in the home of his parents, both grown old now, concerned
mostly with the passing of the days and the welfare of their
children.
His parents asked him of his life at Paranor, but tired easily and did
not press him for details when he gave his answers.  Of the Warlock
Lord and his Skull Bearers, they knew nothing.  Of the Troll army, they
had heard only rumors.
They lived in a small cottage at the edge of the Gardens of Life along
the Carolan, and their days were spent working in their tiny garden and
at their individual crafts, his father's screen painting and his
mother's weaving.  They spoke to him while they worked, taking turns at
asking questions, absorbed in their efforts, listening with half an
ear.  Small, brittle, fading away before his eyes, they reminded him
of the frailty of his own life, the one he had assumed until so
recently to be secure.

Tay's brother and family lived in the Sarandanon, miles to the west and
south, and so Tay learned what he could of them from his parents.  He
had never been close to his brother and had not seen him in more than
eight years, but he listened dutifully and was pleased to hear that he
was doing well with his farming.

His sister Kira was another matter.  She lived in Arborlon, and he went
to see her on his first day home, finding her wrestling clothes onto
her smallest child, her face still young and fresh, her energy still
boundless, her smile as warm and heart breaking as birdsong.  She came
to him with a welcoming laugh, flinging herself into his arms and
hugging him until he thought he might explode.  She took him into the
kitchen and gave him cold ale, sitting him down at the old trestle
bench, asking him of his life and telling him of hers, all at once.
They shared concerns about their parents, and swapped stories of their
childhood, and it was dark before they knew it.  They met again the
following day, and with Kira's husband and the children went into the
woods along the Rill Song for a picnic.  Kira asked if he had seen
Jerle Shannara yet, and then did not mention him again.  The hours
slipped away, and Tay was almost able to forget he had come home for
any other reason.  The children played games with him, tired
eventually, and sat on the river bank kicking their feet in the cold
water while he talked with their parents of the ways in which the world
was changing.  His brother-in-law was a maker of leather goods and
traded regularly with the other Races.  He no longer sent his traders
into the Northland, now that the nations had been subjugated and made
one.  There were rumors, he said, of evil creatures, of winged monsters
and dark shades, of beasts that would savage humans and Elves alike.  Tay
listened and nodded and affirmed that he had heard the rumors, too.  He
tried not to look at Kira too closely when he spoke.  He tried not to
let her see what was in his eyes.

He saw old friends as well, some of whom had been barely grown when he
had seen them last.  Some had been close once.
But they had traveled down different roads, and all had gone too far to
turn back.  Or perhaps it was he who had gone too far.  They were
strangers now, not in appearance or voice, for those were still
familiar, but in choices made that long since had shaped their lives.
He shared nothing with them but memories of what had once been.  It was
sad, but not surprising.  Time stole away commitments and loosened
ties.  Friendships were re duced to tales of the past and vague
promises for the future, neither strong enough to recover what was
lost.  But that was what life did-it took you down separate roads until
one day you found yourself alone.

Arborlon seemed strange as well, though not in a way he would have
expected.  Physically, it was the same, a village grown into a city,
full of excitement and expectation, become the crossroads of the
Westland.  Twenty years of steady growth had made it the largest and
most important city in the northern half of the known world.  The
conclusion of the First War of the Races had altered irrevocably the
role of the Elven people in the future of the Four Lands, and with the
decline of the South land as a major influence, Arborlon and the Elves
had become increasingly important.  But while the city and its
surroundings were familiar to Tay, even with his long absence and
infrequent visits, he could not escape the feeling that he no longere
belonged.  This was not his home now; it hadn't been for the better part
of fifteen years, and it was too late to change that.  Even if Paranor
was destroyed and the Druids gone, he was not sure he could ever come
back.  Arborlon was a part of his past, and somehow he had grown beyond
it.  He was a stranger here, as much as he tried to convince himself
otherwise, and it made him feel awkward when he tried to fit in
again.

How quickly everything slipped away when you weren't paying attention,
he thought more than once in his first few days back.  How swiftly your
life changed.

On the fourth day of his return, Jerle Shannara came to him in the
late-afternoon hours accompanied by Preia Starle.  Tay hadn't seen
Preia yet, although he had wondered about her more than once.  She was
easily the most astonishing woman he had ever known, and if she hadn't
been in love with Jerle for as far back as anyone could remember but
had been in love with Tay instead, he might have changed his life for
her.  She was beautiful, with small, perfect features, cinnamon hair
and eyes to match, a dusky tone to her skin that glowed like the
surface of water caught in a sunrise, and a body that curved and flowed
with the grace and supple ease of a cat's.  That was Preia at first
glance, but it didn't begin to tell you about her.  Preia was as much a
warrior as Jerle, trained as a Tracker, skilled at her chosen craft
beyond anyone Tay had ever known, tough and steady and as certain as
sunrise.  She could track a ferret in a swamp.
She could tell you the size and number and sex of a herd of goats
crossing rocks.  She could live out in the wilderness for weeks on
literally nothing but what she scavenged.  She disdained to follow the
life most Elven women chose, forsaking the comforts of a home and the
companionship of a husband and children.  Preia was distanced from all
that.  She was happy enough with the life she was leading, she had told
Tay once.
Those other things would come to her when Jerle was ready for them.
Until then, she would wait.

Jerle, for his part, was content to let her.  He was ambivalent, Tay
thought, about what he felt for her.  He loved her in his way, but it
was Kira that he had loved first and best and was unable to forget,
even after all these years.  Preia must have known that-she was too
smart to miss it-but she never said anything.  Tay had expected their
relationship to have changed since his last visit, but it did not
appear that it had.  There had been no mention of Preia in his
conversations with Jerle.  Preia was still standing outside the gates
of the fortress of self sufficiency and independence that Jerle
Shannara had erected around himself, waiting to be let in.

She came to Tay with a smile as he looked up from the Westland maps he
was studying at a small table in his parents' garden.  He rose to meet
her, his throat tightening at the sight of her, and he bent to receive
her welcoming embrace and kiss.

"You look well, Tay," she greeted, stepping back to view him more
closely, hands resting lightly on his arms.

"Better, now that I'm seeing you," he replied, surprising him self with
the boldness of his response.

Preia and Jerle took him from the house to the Carolan, where they
could talk privately.  They sat at the edge of the Gardens of Life,
looking out across the bluff to the tips of the tall trees beyond the
Rill Song.  Jerle had chosen a circular bench that allowed them to face
each other and close out the distractions of passersby.  He had said
almost nothing since he had come for Tay, his look distant and
preoccupied, and he faced Tay squarely now for the first time.

"Bremen was right," he said.  "Paranor has fallen.  All the Druids
within are dead.  If any escaped besides those who went with you, they
are in hiding."

Tay stared at him, letting the weight of the announcement settle in,
then glanced at Preia.  There was no surprise in her face.  She already
knew.

"You sent Preia to Paranor?"  he asked quickly, suddenly re alizing why
she was there.

"Who better?"  Jerle asked matter-of-factly.  And he was right.
Tay had asked him to send someone dependable, and there was no one more
dependable than Preia.  But it was a dangerous task, filled with
personal risk, and Tay would have chosen someone else.  It pointed up
the difference in their feelings for Preia, he realized.  But it did
not make his the more noble.

"Tell him what you saw," Jerle urged her quietly.

She faced Tay, her coppery eyes soft and reassuring.  "I crossed the
Streleheim without incident.  There were Trolls, but no sign of the
Gnomes and Skull Bearer you saw.  I entered the Dragon's Teeth at dawn
on the second day and went directly to the Keep.  The gates were open
and there was no life within.  I entered without challenge.  All the
guards lay slaughtered, some by weapons, some by claws and teeth, as if
animals had gotten them.  The Druids lay within, all of them dead.
Some had been killed in battle.  Some had been dragged from the
Assembly and taken to the cellars and walled away.  I was able to read
their passage and find their tombs."

She paused, seeing the look of horror and sadness that crept into his
eyes as he remembered those he had left behind.  One slender hand
closed on his own.  "There were signs of a second battle as well, one
fought on the stairs leading up from the main entry.  This one happened
more recently, several days after the other.  Several creatures were
destroyed, things I could not identify.  Magic was used.  The entire
stairwell was scarred black by it, as if a fire had burned it clean,
leaving only the ashes of the dead."

"Bremen?"  he asked.

She shook her head.  "I don't know.  Perhaps."  Her hand tightened over
his.  "Tay, I'm sorry."


He nodded.  "Even knowing it these few days past, even preparing
myself to accept it, it is still difficult hearing you speak the
words.
All dead.  All those I worked and lived with for so many years.  Maybe
even Bremen.  It makes me feel hollow inside."

"Well, it's over and done, and there's no help for it."  Jerle was
ready to move on.  He rose.  "We must speak with the Council now.  I
will go to Ballindarroch and set a meeting.  He may fuss a bit, but I
will find a way to make him listen.  Mean while, Preia can tell you
anything else you need to know.  Be strong, Tay.  We will have our own
back from them in the end."

He strode off without looking back, finding purpose in action as
always.  Tay watched him go, then looked at Preia.  "How have you
been?"

"Good."  She regarded him quizzically.  "You were surprised I went to
Paranor, weren't you?"

"Yes.  It was a selfish reaction."

"But a nice one."  She smiled.  "I like having you home, Tay.
I missed being with you.  You were always interesting to talk to."

He stretched his long legs and looked out across the Carolan to where a
unit of Black Watch were moving toward the Gardens.  "Less so now, I'm
afraid.  I don't know what to say anymore.  I am back four days and
already thinking of leaving.
I feel rootless."

"Well, you've been away a long time.  It must seem strange."

"I don't think I belong here anymore, Preia.  Maybe I don't belong
 anywhere, now that Paranor is gone.

She laughed softly.  "I know that feeling.  Only Jerle never has those
doubts because he won't let himself.  He belongs where he wants to
belong; he makes himself fit in.  I can't do that."

They were silent a moment.  Tay tried not to look at her.

"You will be going west in a few days when the king gives you leave to
search for the Stone," she said finally.  "Maybe you will feel better
when you do that."

He smiled.  'Jerle told you."


'Jerle tells me everything.  I am his life companion, even if he
doesn't acknowledge it."

"He is a fool not to."

She nodded absently.  "I will be coming with you when you go.

Now he looked directly at her.  "No."

She smiled, enjoying his discomfort.  "You can't tell me that, Tay.  No
one can.  I don't allow it."

"Preia .  . ."

"It is too dangerous, it is too hard a journey, it is too some thing or
other."  She sighed, but the sound did not chide.  "I have heard it all
before, Tay-although not from anyone who cares about me like you do."
She met his gaze.  "But I will be going with you."

He shook his head in admiration and smiled in spite of him self.
"Of course.  And Jerle won't object, will he?"

Her smile was dazzling, her face bright with undisguised pleasure.
"No.  He doesn't know yet, you understand, but when he does he will
shrug like he always does and tell me I am welcome. She paused.  "He accepts
me for who I am better than
you do.  He treats me as an equal.  Do you understand?"

Tay shifted on the bench, wondering if he did.  "I think he is very
lucky to have you," he said.  He cleared his throat.  "Tell me a little
more about what you found at Paranor, anything you think might be of
interest, anything you think I might want to know."

She tucked her legs beneath her on the bench, as if to ward off the
unpleasantness of the words she must speak, and did so.

WHEN PREIA LEFT HIM, he remained sitting for a time trying to picture
the faces of the Druids he would never see again.
Strangely enough, his memory of some was already beginning to fade.  It
worked like that, he supposed, even with those that mattered most.

It was approaching evening, and he rose and walked along the edge of
the Carolan and watched the sunset, the sky coloring gold and silver as
the light faded toward darkness.  He waited until torches began to
brighten the city behind him, then turned and walked back toward his
parents' home.  He felt alienated, disconnected.  Paranor's destruction
and the death of the Druids had cut him loose from his moorings,
leaving him adrift.  All that remained for him was to fulfill Bremen's
admonition to seek out the Black Elfstone, and he was determined to do
that.  Then he would start his life over again.  He wondered if he
could do that.  He wondered where he would begin.

He was approaching his destination when a king's messenger stepped out
of the shadows and advised him that he was to come at once.
The urgency of the summons was apparent, so Tay did not argue.  He
turned from the pathway and followed the messenger back toward the
Carolan and the palace that housed the king and his considerable
family.  Courtann Ballindarroch was the fifth of his line, and the size
of the royal family had grown larger with each new coronation.  Now the
palace housed not only the king and queen, but five children and their
spouses, more than a dozen grandchildren, and numerous aunts, uncles,
and cousins.  Among them was Jerle Shannara, although he spent most of
his time at the Home Guard quarters, where he felt decidedly more
comfortable.

The palace came in sight, a blaze of light against the darker backdrop
of the Gardens of Life.  But as they neared the front entry, the
messenger took him left down a pathway that led to the summerhouse at
one end of the compound.  Tay glanced across the broad, dark sweep of
the grounds, searching for the Home Guard that kept watch.  He could
sense them, could count their numbers if he chose by using his magic,
but could see nothing.  Inside the palace, framed against the lighted
windows, shadows came and went like faceless wraiths.  The messenger
showed no interest, directing him past the main house to where
Ballindarroch had chosen to receive him.  Tay wondered at the
abruptness of the summons.  Had something new occurred?  Had there
been another tragedy?  He forced himself not to speculate, but to wait
for his answer.

The messenger took him directly to the front door of the summerhouse
and told him to go inside.  He entered alone, passed through the foyer
to the living area beyond, and found Jerle Shannara waiting.

His friend shrugged and held up his hands helplessly.  "I have no more
idea than you.  I was summoned, and here I am."

"You told the king what we know?"

"I told him you needed an immediate audience with the High Council,
that you had urgent news.  Nothing more."

 They stared at each other,
speculating on the matter.  Then the front door opened, and Courtann
Ballindarroch appeared.
Tay wondered where he had come from-if he had walked down from the main
house or had been listening outside the window in the gardens.
Courtann was unpredictable.  Physically, he was a man of average height
and build, comfortably middle aged, slightly stooped, graying a bit at
the temples and along the edges of his beard, a series of deep creases
beginning to show in his face and neck.  There was nothing distinctive
about Courtann, he looked very ordinary.  He did not have an orator's
voice or a leader's charm, and he was quick to admit confusion when
beset by it.  He had become king in the usual fashion, the eldest child
of the previous king, and he neither sought power nor shied away from
it.  What he brought with him to his rule as leader of the Elves was a
reputation of not being given to un expected or outrageous behavior, of
not being inclined to dramatic or precipitous change, so that he was
accepted by his people in the manner of a favorite uncle.

"Welcome home, Tay," he greeted.  He was smiling and relaxed and did
not seem at all distressed as he came up to the younger man and clasped
his hand.  "I thought we might discuss your news in private before you
present it to the High Council."  He ran his hand through his thick
shock of hair.  "I prefer to keep surprises at a minimum in my life.
And, should you need an ally, perhaps I might serve.  No, don't look to
your confidant-he hasn't said a word.  Even if he had, I wouldn't 
listen to him.  Too unreliable.  Jerle is here only because I have never
known either of you to keep secrets from the other, so there probably
isn't much point in trying to start now."

He beckoned.  "Let's sit over here, in these padded chairs.
My back has been bothering me.  Grandchildren will do that to you.
And let's not be formal.  First names will do.  We've all known each
other too long for anything else."

It was true, Tay thought, seating himself across from the king and next
to Jerle.  Courtann Ballindarroch was older by a good twenty years, but
they had been friends for their entire lives.  Jerle had always lived
at court, and Tay had spent much of his time there and so had seen much
of Courtann.  When they were boys, Courtann had taken them fishing and
hunting.
Special events and feasts had often brought them together.  Tay had
been present when Courtann had been crowned some thirty years ago.
Each of them knew what to expect from the other.

"I am afraid I was skeptical from the first that you had returned for
no better reason than to visit us," the king advised with a sigh.
"You have always been much too directed to squander a visit home on
social pleasures.  I hope you don't take offense."  He rocked back.
"So what news do you have for us?
Come now, let's have it all."

"There is a great deal to tell," Tay replied, leaning forward to better
hold the other's gaze.  "Bremen sent me.  He came to Paranor almost two
weeks ago and tried to warn the Druid Council that they were in
danger.
He had gone into the North land and confirmed the existence of the
Warlock Lord.  He had determined that it was the rebel Druid Brona,
still alive after several hundred years, kept so by the magic that had
subverted him.  It was Brona who found a way to unite the Trolls and
subjugate them so that they would serve as his army.
Before traveling to Paranor, Bremen tracked that army south toward the
Eastland."

He paused to choose his words carefully.  "The Druid Council would not
listen.  Athabasca sent Bremen away, and a handful of us went with
him.
Caerid Lock was asked to come as well, but declined.  He stayed behind
to protect Athabasca and the others against themselves."

"A good man," the king advised.  "Very able."

"With Bremen leading us, we went to the Valley of Shale.
There, at the Hadeshorn, Bremen spoke with the spirits of the dead.  I
watched him do so.  They told him several things.  One was that Paranor
and the Druids would be lost.  Another was that the Warlock Lord would
invade the Four Lands, and that a talisman must be constructed to
destroy him.  A third concerned the location of a Black Elfstone, a
magic the Warlock Lord searches for, but that we must find first.  When
the spirits of the dead departed, Bremen sent the Druid Risca to warn
the Dwarves of their danger.  He sent me to warn you.  I was 
instructed to persuade you to bring your army east across the 
Borderlands to join forces with the Dwarves.  Only by combining our
strength can we defeat the Warlock Lord's army.  I was also instructed
to request help in undertaking a search for the Black Elfstone."

Ballindarroch was no longer smiling.  "You are being very candid in
relating all this," the king advised, not bothering to hide his
surprise.  "I would have expected you to take a more subtle approach in
seeking my help."

Tay nodded.  "That was my intention.  And I would have done so if I
were speaking to you before the High Council.  But I am not.  I am
speaking to you alone.  There are only the three of us present, and as
you have pointed out we know each other well enough not to pretend at
things.

"There is a better reason than that," Jerle interjected quickly.
"Tell him, Tay."

Tay folded his hands before him, but did not drop his gaze.

"I have waited until now to speak to you because I wanted to confirm
Bremen's suspicions about Paranor and the Druids.  I asked Jerle to
send someone back to see what had happened, to make sure.  He did so.
He sent Preia Starle.  She returned this afternoon and spoke to me.
Paranor has indeed fallen.  All the
Druids and those who guarded them are
dead.
Caerid Lock is gone.  Athabasca is gone.  There is no one left-no one,
Courtann, who possesses the power necessary to stand against Brona."

Courtann Ballindarroch stared at him wordlessly, then rose, walked to
the window, looked out into the night, walked back, and seated himself
once more.  "This is troubling news," he said quietly.  "When you told
me of Bremen's vision, I thought it would turn out to be a trick, a
subterfuge, something other than the truth.  Anything.  All the Druids
dead, you say?  So many of them our own people?  But they have always
been there, for as long as history records.  And now they are gone?
All of them?
I can hardly believe it."

"But they are gone," Jerle declared, not willing to let the king dither
over the matter.  "Now we need to act quickly to prevent the same thing
from happening to us."

The Elf King rubbed his beard.  "But not too quickly, Jerle.
Let us think this through a moment.  If I do as Bremen has asked and
march the Elven army east, I leave Arborlon and the West land
undefended.  That is a dangerous course of action.  I know the history
of the First War of the Races well enough to avoid its mistakes.
Caution is necessary."

"Caution suggests delay, and we don't have time for that!"
Jerle snapped.

The king fixed him with an icy glare.  "Do not press me, cousin."

Tay could not risk an argument between them at this point.
"What do you suggest, Courtann," he interjected quickly.

The king looked at him.  He rose and walked to the window once more and
stood with his back to them.  Jerle glanced at Tay, but Tay did not
acknowledge him.  The matter was now between himself and the king.  He
waited for Courtann to turn back again, to cross the room and seat
himself once more.

"I am convinced by everything you have told me, Tay, so do not look
upon my response as a contradiction.  I have great faith in Bremen's
word.  If he says that the Warlock Lord lives and is the rebel Druid
Brona, then it must be so.  If he says that the land's magic is being
pressed into evil's service, then it must be true.  But I am a student
of history, and I know that Brona was never a fool, and we must not
assume that he will do what we expect.  He surely knows that Bremen, if
still alive, must try to stop him.  He has eyes and ears everywhere.
He may know what we intend, even before we intend it.  We must make
sure of what is needed before we act."

There was a moment's silence as his listeners absorbed his words.
"What will you do then?"  Tay asked finally.

Courtann smiled his fatherly smile.  "Go with you before the High
Council and give you my support, of course.  The Council must be made
to see the necessity of acting on your news.  It should not be hard.
The loss of Paranor and the Druids will be enough to persuade them, I
think.  Your request to go in search of the Black Elfstone will be
approved at once, I expect.  There is no reason to delay action on that.
 Of course your shadow, my cousin, will insist on going with you, and
as you might suspect, I would prefer that he did."

He rose, and they stood up with him.  "As for your second request, that
our army march to the aid of the Dwarves, I must consider that a while
longer.  I will dispatch scouts to see what we can determine of the
Warlock Lord's presence in the Four Lands.  When they report back, and
after I have thought this matter through and the High Council has had
time to debate it, a decision will be made."

He paused, waiting for Tay's response.  "I am grateful, my lord," Tay
acknowledged quickly.  In truth, it was more than he had expected.

"Then show it by making a strong argument to the Council."  The king
put his hand on Tay's shoulder.  "They wait for us now in the
Assembly.
They will want to know that the time they gave up with their families
this evening was in a good cause."  He glanced at Jerle.
"Cousin, you may come with us if you think you can manage to hold your
tongue.  Your voice is well respected in these matters, and we may
require your insight.  Agreed?"

Jerle nodded that it was.  They went out of the summer house into the
night and walked down to the Assembly.  Members of the Home Guard
materialized out of nowhere, front and back, dark shadows against the
distant torchlight of the palace.
The king didn't seem to notice them, humming softly as he walked,
glancing at the stars with mild fascination.  Tay was 
Surprised, but pleased that the king had acted as quickly as he had.
He breathed the night air, taking in the fragrance of jasmine and
lilac, and gathered his thoughts for what lay ahead.  He was already
planning the trip west, thinking through what they would need, which
routes they would choose, how they would proceed.  How many should they
be?  A dozen should be sufficient.  Enough to stay safe, but not so
many as to draw attention.  He was conscious of Jerle at his elbow, a
large, impassive presence, lost in his own thoughts.  It felt good to
have him there, steady and reliable.  It brought back memories of what
had once been, when they were boys.  There was always an adventure
waiting to be undertaken then, a new cause to consider, a different
challenge to be met.  He had missed that, he guessed.
It felt good having it back again.  For the first time since his
return, he thought he might be home.

He spoke that night before the High Council with a conviction and
persuasiveness that surpassed anything of which he believed himself
capable.  All that Bremen had asked of him he accomplished.  But it was
Bremen himself, even absent, who made the difference.  The old man was
liked and respected in Arborlon, and during his time there he had won
many friends with his work on the recovery of Elven history and
magic.
If he sought the help of the Elves, especially given the destruction of
Paranor and the Druids, the Council would see that he got it.
Permission was granted to mount a search for the Black Elfstone.
A company would be formed under the joint leader ship of Tay Trefenwyd
and Jerle Shannara.  Swift consideration was promised on the request
for aid to the Dwarves.  Support was strong and enthusiastic-more so
than Courtann Ballindarroch had anticipated.  The king, seeing the
effect that Tay's words were having on the members of the Council,
added his support as well, careful to stress that there were still
questions to be resolved before aid could be sent to the Dwarves.

It was midnight when the High Council adjourned.  Tay stood outside the
Assembly and clasped hands with Jerle Shannara in silent
congratulation.  The king brushed past them with a smile and was
gone.
Overhead, the sky was pinpricked with stars, and the air about them was
sweet and warm.  Success was a heady intoxicant.  Things had gone the
way Tay had hoped, and he wished impulsively that he could get word of
it to Bremen.  Jerle was talking nonstop, flushed with excitement,
anticipating the journey west, a new adventure to be under taken, an
escape from the boring routine of his court life in Arborlon.

In that moment of high jubilation, it felt to them both as if all
things were possible and nothing could go wrong.

CHAPTER 10

WHEN THE OTHERS HAD GONE and they were all that were left, Tay and
Jerle walked up together from the Assembly to the palace.  They took
their time, still caught up in the euphoria of their success before the
High Council, neither of them ready for sleep.  The night was still,
the city about them at peace, the world a place of dreams and rest.
Torches flickered in doorways and at the intersections of roads,
beacons against the onslaught of shadows made deeper by the fading of
the moon south below the horizon.  Buildings loomed out of the darkness
like great beasts curled up in sleep.  The trees of the forest lined
the walkways and surrounded the Elven homes, sentinels standing
shoulder to shoulder, motionless in the dark.  It gave Tay, as his gaze
wandered idly across the open spaces and through the shadows, an odd
sense of comfort, as if he were being watched over and protected.
Jerle talked on, working his way from subject to subject in eager
consideration of the events that lay ahead, arms gesturing, laugh
booming out.  Tay let him go, swept along in his wake, detached enough
that he could listen and still let his thoughts wander, thinking of how
his past had come around to his present, of how perhaps what had been
left behind could be reclaimed again.

"We will need horses to cross the Sarandanon," Jerle was musing.
"But we can travel faster through the forest leading up to the valley,
and then again once we are into the Breakline, if we are afoot.  We'll
have to pack differently for each portion of the journey, carry
different provisions."

Tay nodded without answering.  No answer was required.

"A dozen of us at the minimum, but perhaps two would be better.
If we're forced to stand and fight, we can't be caught shorthanded."
His friend laughed.  "I don't know what I'm worried about.  What would
dare come against the two of us!"

Tay shrugged, looking down the walk to where the lights of the palace
had come into view through the trees.  "I am hopeful that we won't have
to find out."

"Well, we'll be cautious, you can be sure.  Leave quietly, stick to the
cover of the trees, stay away from dangerous places.
But .  . ."  He stopped and brought Tay about to face him.  "Make no
mistake-the Warlock Lord and his creatures will be hunting us.  They
know that even if Bremen did not escape the Druid's Keep, a handfull of
his followers did.  Quite possibly they suspect he penetrated their
Northland safehold.  They know we will be looking for the Black
Elfstone."

Tay thought it over.  "Expect the worst.  That way we won't be
surprised.  Is that it?"

Jerle Shannara nodded, suddenly solemn.  "That's it."


They started back up the path.  "I'm not sleepy," the big man
complained.  He stopped again.  "Where can we go for a glass of ale?
One, to celebrate."

Tay shrugged.  "The palace?"

"Not the palace!  I hate the palace!  All those parents and children
rummaging about, family everywhere.  No, not there.
Your house?"

"My parents are asleep.  Besides, I feel as much a stranger there as
you do at the palace.  How about the Home Guard barracks?"

Jerle beamed.  "Done!  A glass or two, then bed.  We have much to talk
about, Tay."

They walked on, glancing together at the palace as they passed.
The downstairs was dark and the grounds quiet.  There was no sign of
movement anywhere.  From an upstairs room, a single light burned behind
a curtained window, a candle lit in a child's room to give promise of
another morning.

From somewhere distant, a night bird cried out in a series of shrill
calls that echoed forlornly before dying back into the silence.

Jerle slowed and stopped, bringing Tay up short with him.
He stared at the palace.

"What is it?"  Tay asked after a moment.

"I don't see any guards."

Tay looked.  "Any guards where?  I thought you weren't sup posed to see
them."  

jerle shook his head.  "You aren't.  But I am."

Tay stared with him, seeing nothing against the black of the buildings
or across the tree-canopied sweep of the grounds.  No shapes even
vaguely human.  He searched for movement and did not find any.
Elven Hunters were trained to fade away.  Home Guard were better
still.
But he should still be able to find them as easily as Jerle.

He used his magic then, a small sending that raked the whole of the
palace enclosure from end to end, fingers of disclosure that picked at
everything.  There was movement now discovered in his search, swift and
furtive and alien.

"Something is wrong," he said at once.

Jerle Shannara started forward wordlessly, heading for the palace
entry, picking up speed as he went.  Tay went with him, a strange sense
of dread welling up inside.  He tried to give it definition, to place
its source, but it slipped away from him, elusive and defiant.  Tay
searched the shadows to either side, finding everything suddenly black
and secretive.  His hands tested the air, the tips of his fingers
releasing his Druid magic in a widening net.  He felt the net close on
something that twisted and squirmed and then darted away.

"Gnomes!"  he exclaimed.

Jerle broke into a run, reaching down to his belt and yanking out his
short sword, the blade gleaming faintly against the dark as it slipped
free.  Jerle Shannara never went anywhere without his weapons.
Tay hurried to keep up.  Neither of them spoke, falling in beside each
other as they neared the front doors, glancing left and right warily,
ready for anything.

The doors stood open.  No light shone from within.  From the walkway,
it had been impossible to tell this.  Jerle did not slow.  He went
through the doors in a crouch, sword held ready.
Tay followed.

The hall stretched away before them like a cavernous tunnel.
There were bodies everywhere, strewn about like sacks of old clothing,
bloodied and still.  Elven Hunters, slain to a man, but a scattering of
Gnome Hunters as well.  The floor was slick with their blood.  Jerle
motioned Tay to one side while he went to the other, and together they
worked their way down the hall to the main rooms.  The rooms were quiet
and empty of life.  The companions backtracked, moving swiftly toward
the stairs leading up.  Jerle did not speak, even now.  He did not ask
Tay if he wanted a weapon.  He did not try to tell him what to do.  He
did not need to.  Tay was a Druid and knew.

They went up the stairs like ghosts, listening to the silence, waiting
for a betraying sound.  There was none.  They reached the upstairs
landing and looked down the darkened corridors beyond.  More guards lay
dead.  Tay was astonished.  There had been no outcry of any kind!  How
could these men, these trained Elven Hunters, have died without
sounding an alarm?

The hall branched both ways, burrowing into the darkness and angling
off into the wings of the palace where the royal family slept within
their bedrooms.  Jerle glanced at Tay, eyes bright and hard, motioned
him right, and went left himself.  Tay glanced after his friend,
crouched against the gloom like a moor cat, then turned swiftly away.

He moved ahead, hands clenched into fists, the magic called up and
gathered within his palms like a hard pulse, waiting to be released.
Fear mingled with horror.  There were sounds now, small voices, sobs
and little cries that went still almost as quickly as they came, and he
raced toward them, heedless.
Shadows moved in the hallway before him as he turned the corner to the
back wing.  Blades glinted wickedly, and gnarled forms came at him.

Gnomes.  He stopped thinking and simply reacted.  His right hand lifted
and opened, and the magic ex ploded into his attackers, picking them up
and throwing them against the walls so hard that he could hear their
bones snap.
He went through them as if they were not there, past open doorways
where the occupants lay sprawled in death-mothers, fathers, and
children alike-to where the doors still stood closed and there might
yet be hope.

A new clutch of attackers burst from hiding as he rushed past, flinging
themselves onto him and bearing him to the floor.
Weapons rose and fell with desperate purpose, edges sharp and deadly.
But he was a Druid, and his defenses were already in place.
The blades slid off him as if come up against armor, and his hands
fastened on the wiry bodies and threw them away.  He was strong, even
without his magic, and with his magic to aid him the Gnomes were no
match.  He was back on his feet allmost immediately, his fire sweeping
about him in a deadly arc, cutting apart those few still standing.  New
cries rose, and he went on, horror-stricken at what he knew was
happening.  An attack, a deadly strike against the whole of the Elven
royal family.  He knew immediately that it was the same band of Gnome
Hunters he had encountered and bypassed on the plains below the
Streleheim, that they were neither scouts nor foragers but assassins,
and that somewhere close by was the Skull Bearer who led them.

He passed door after door of slain Ballindarrochs, large and small
alike, killed in their sleep or immediately on waking.
Once past the Home Guard, there was nothing to stop the Gnomes from
completing their deadly mission.  Tay hissed in frustration.
Magic had been used in this.  Nothing less would have gained the
assassins entry without warning being given.
Rage boiled through him.  He reached another door and found the Gnomes
within killing a man and woman they had backed against their bedroom
wall.  Tay threw his magic into the attackers and burned them alive.
Cries rose up now as if in response, the warning he had wished for
finally given, coming not from his wing, but from the other, where
Jerle Shannara would be fighting as well.


He left the man and woman slumped against the wall and went on, unable
to help them.  There were only a few doors left.
One, he realized suddenly, despairingly, was where Courtann
Ballindarroch slept.

He went to that one first, desperate now, losing hope that he would be
in time for anyone.  He went past a closed door on his left and an open
one on his right.  Through the open door, a pair of Gnomes appeared,
bloodied weapons raised, yellow eyes glinting, surprise revealed on
their cunning faces.  He gestured at them and they vanished in an
explosion of fire, dead before they knew what was happening.  Tay could
feel his strength diminished by the expenditure of power.  He had not
been tested like this before, and he must be cautious.  Bremen had
warned him more than once that use of the magic was finite.  He must
hoard what remained for when it was truly needed.

He saw now that the door to the king's bedroom was open as well,
cracked slightly from where it had been forced.

Tay did not hesitate.  He rushed to the door and flung it open with a
crash, leaping inside.  There were no lights in the room, but broad
windows set along the far wall let in a dull glimmer from the street
lamps below.  Shadows rose up against the hangings and drapes,
distorted and grotesque.  Courtann Ballindarroch had been flung against
a wall to one side.  He lay revealed in the half-light, his face and
chest bloodied, one arm bent horribly awry, his eyes open and blinking
rapidly, The Skull Bearer stood a dozen steps away, bent within the
fold of its leathery wings, hooded and caped.  It had taken hold of the
queen, lifting her away from the tattered covers of the bed.  Her body
was broken and lifeless, her eyes staring.  The creature flung her away
as Tay appeared, a careless gesture, and wheeled to face the Druid,
hissing in challenge.  Gnomes attacked as well, coming out of the
shadows, but Tay swatted them aside like gnats and turned the full
force of his power on their leader.
The Skull Bearer was caught unprepared, expecting perhaps an other
guard, another helpless victim.  Tay's magic exploded into the monster
in a burst of fire that burned half its face away.  The Skull Bearer
shrieked in rage and pain, clawing futilely at its skin, then threw
itself at Tay.  Its speed was astonishing, and now it was Tay who was
surprised.  The Skull Bearer slammed into him before he could brace
himself, thrust him aside, and was out the door and gone.

Tay struggled to his feet, hesitated only a moment as he glanced at
Courtann Ballindarroch, then gave chase.

He went back down the darkened hallway, avoiding the bodies of the dead
and the slick of their blood, senses straining to pick up the presence
of other attackers.  Ahead, the Skull Bearer was a vague shadow
lumbering through the gloom.
Shouts had risen from outside, and there was a thudding of boots and a
clash of weapons as Home Guard flooded the grounds, arrived from their
barracks in response to the alarm.
Tay's pulse pounded in his ears as he ran.  He threw off his cloak so
that he could move more easily.  At the bend in the hall, the Skull
Bearer turned instinctively toward the opposite wing, avoiding the knot
of Elven Hunters who rushed up the stairway.
Tay called down to his countrymen as he raced past, summoning their
help.

He called as well for Jerle Shannara.

The Skull Bearer glanced back, disfigured features a sodden, red mess
in a sudden glimmer of torchlight.  Tay called out to it in challenge,
taunting it, rage and spite giving an edge to his voice.
But the winged hunter did not slow, turning now onto a narrow set of
stairs that led to a roof walk.  The monster was faster than Tay and
pulling steadily away from him.  Tay swore in fury.

Then abruptly a solitary figure materialized at the far end of the
hall, come from the gloom beyond, a lithe, tigerish form that dodged
with ease through the bodies of the dead and turned up the stairs in
pursuit of the Skull Bearer.

It was Jerle.

Tay charged ahead, forcing himself to run faster, his breath a ragged,
harsh sound in his ears.  He reached the stairs moments behind his
friend and followed him up.  He stumbled and fell in the pitch black of
the stairwell, scrambled up determinedly, and went on.

On the parapets of the walk, he found Jerle locked in battle with the
Skull Bearer.  It should have been a mismatch, the winged hunter far
more powerful than the Elf, but Jerle Shannara seemed possessed.
He was fighting as if it made no difference to him whether he lived or
died so long as his adver sary did not escape.  They surged back and
forth across the walk, up against the balustrades, twisting and turning
from darkness into light.  Jerle had his arms locked about the 
monster's wings so that it could not fly.  The Skull Bearer tore at the
Elf with its claws, but Jerle was behind it, and it could not reach
him.

Tay cried out to his friend and raced to help.  He brought the magic to
his fingertips, calling it up as Bremen had taught him, bringing the
strength of his body into joinder with the elements of the world that
had birthed him, a quickening of life's fire.  The Skull Bearer saw him
approaching, and wheeled away, placing Jerle between them so that the
Druid could not use his magic.  Below, on the palace grounds, Elven
Hunters looked up, seeing the combatants for the first time,
recognizing jerle.  Arrows were notched in longbows, and strings were
drawn back and made ready.

Then the monster broke Jerle's grip, leaped onto the balustrade, and
took wing.  It hung momentarily against the light, huge and dark and
nightmarish, a harried beast in search of any haven.  Tay struck at it
with everything he had, sending the Druid fire burning into its hated
form.  Below, bowstrings released, and dozens of arrows buried
themselves in the creature's body.  The Skull Bearer shuddered,
faltered, and struggled on, streaming fire and smoke like kite tails,
bristling with arrows.  A second barrage of missiles from the bowmen
flew into it.  Now one wing collapsed, and in a final desperate effort
it threw itself toward the tops of a stand of trees.  But its strength
was gone, and its body would no longer respond.
Down it went, thrashing as it struck the ground and swordsman swarmed
over it.

Even then, it took a long time to die.

ASEARCH OF THE GROUNDS, the city, and the forests beyond did not turn
up any further trace of the attackers.  All had been killed, it
seemed.
Perhaps they had expected to die.  Perhaps they had come to Arborlon
knowing they would.  It didn't matter now.  What mattered was that
they had succeeded in what they had come to do.  They had destroyed the
Ballindarroch family.  Men, women, and children, the Ballindarrochs had
died in their sleep, some never waking, some waking just long enough to
realize what was happening before their lives were taken from them.
The scope of the disaster was stunning.
Courtann Ballindarroch still lived, but only barely.  The Healers
worked on him all night, but even after they had done everything they
could to save him there was little hope.  One son still lived, the next
to youngest, Alyten, who had been hunting west with friends and by
chance alone had avoided the fate of the
others in his family.  Two small grandchildren had survived as well,
sleeping in the bedroom that Tay had passed on his way to the king's,
saved because the Gnome assassins had not yet gotten to them.
Even during the attack, they did not wake.  The older was barely four,
the younger not yet two.

Within hours, the city was transformed into an armed camp.
Elven Hunters were dispatched to all quarters to set up watch.
Patrols were sent down every trail and roadway and on to the Valley of
Rhenn to give warning.  The people of the city were roused and told to
make ready for a full-scale assault.  No one was certain what might
happen next, appalled and terrified by the assassination of the royal
family in their own beds.

Anything seemed possible, and everyone was determined thatwhatever
catastrophe might occur next, they would be ready for it.

By dawn the weather had changed, the temperature dropping, the skies
clouding over, the air turning heavy and still.
Soon a long, slow drizzle filled the air with mist and gloom.

Tay sat with Jerle Shannara on a window seat in a small allcove off
the entry to the palace and watched the rain fall.  The bodies of the
dead had been removed.  All the rooms had been searched twice over for
assassins trying to hide.  The blood and gore of the attack had been
washed away, and the bedrooms where the carnage had occurred had been
stripped and cleaned.
All of it had been done in darkness, before dawn's light, as if to hide
the travesty, as if to conceal the horror.  Now the palace stood
empty.
Even Courtann Ballindarroch's two small grand children had been taken
to other homes until it could be decided what to do with them.

"You know why this was done, don't you?"  Jerle asked Tay suddenly,
breaking a silence that had gone on for some time.

Tay looked at him.  "The killings)" 

Jerle nodded.  "To disrupt
things. To throw us off balance.
To stop us from mobilizing the army."  He sounded tired.  "In short, to
prevent us from sending help to the Dwarves.  With Courtann dead, the
Elves will not do anything until a new king is chosen.  The Warlock
Lord knows this.  That's why he sent his assassins to Arborlon with
orders to kill everyone.  By the time we are regrouped sufficiently
even to make a decision about ourselves, it will be too late for the
Dwarves.  The Eastland will have fallen."

Tay took a deep breath.  "We can't let that happen."

Jerle snorted derisively.  "We can't stop it!  It's done!"  He 
gestured dismissively.  "Courtann Ballindarroch will be lucky to live out
another day.  You saw what was done to him.  He's not a strong man,
Tay.  I don't know why he's still alive."  

jerle pushed himself back
against the wall, feet drawing up on the seat before him, looking a
little like a small boy being kept indoors against his will.  His
clothes were in tatters; he hadn't changed them since the fight.  A
wicked slash ran down the left side of his jaw.  He had washed it and
forgotten it.  He looked a wreck.

Tay glanced down at himself.  He didn't look any better.
They were both in need of a bath and sleep.

"What else will he do to stop us, do you think?"  Jerle asked softly.

Tay shook his head.  "Nothing here.  What else is there to do?
But he will go after Risca and Bremen, I expect.  Maybe he already
has."  He looked out into the rain, listening to its patter on the
glass.  "I wish I could warn them.  I wish I knew where Bremen was."

He thought of what had been done this night to the Elves-their royal
family decimated, their sense of security shattered, their peace of
mind lost.  Much had been taken from them, and he was not at all
certain that any of it could be regained.  Jerle was right.  Until the
king recovered or died and was replaced, the High Council would do
nothing to help the Dwarves.  No one would take responsibility for such
a decision.
It wasn't clear if anyone could.  Alyten might attempt to act in his
father's place, but it was unlikely.  Not strong like his father, he
was a reckless, impulsive youth who had not been given a lot of
responsibility in his life.  Mostly, he had served as his father's aide
and done what he was told.  He had no experience at leading.  He would
be king if Courtann died, but the High Council would not be quick to
support his decisions.  Nor would Alyten be quick to make them.  He
would be cautious and indecisive, anxious not to err.  It was the wrong
time for him to be king.
The Warlock Lord would be quick to take advantage.

The size and complexity of the dilemma was depressing.
The Elves knew who was responsible for the attack.  The Skull Bearer
had been clearly seen before its destruction, and the Gnome Hunters had
been identified.  Both served the Warlock Lord.  But Brona was faceless
and omnipresent in the Four Lands, a force that lacked a center, a
legend bordering on myth, and no one knew how to reveal him.
He was there, and yet he wasn't.  He existed, but to what extent?  How
were they to proceed against him?  With the Druids destroyed at
Paranor, there was no one to tell them what to do, no one to advise
them, no one they respected enough to heed.  In two swift strikes, the
Warlock Lord had destroyed the balance of power in the Four Lands and
rendered the strongest of the Races immobile.

"We can't just sit here," Jerle observed pointedly, as if reading Tay's
thoughts.

Tay nodded.  He was thinking that time was slipping away, that he was
suddenly in danger of failing to accomplish what Bremen had required of
him.  He stared out into the rain, a gray haze that rendered the world
beyond his window seat muddy and indistinct.  Where once so much had
seemed certain, now nothing was assured.

"If we can do nothing for the Dwarves, we must at least do something
for ourselves," he said quietly.  His eyes fixed on Jerle's.
"We must go in search of the Black Elfstone."

His friend studied him a moment, then nodded slowly.  "We could,
couldn't we?  Courtann has already given his approval."  A hint of
excitement flickered in the hard blue eyes.  "It will give us something
to do while we wait out events here.  And if we find the Stone, it will
give us a weapon to use against the Warlock Lord."

"Or at least deprive him of one he might use against us."
Tay was mindful of Bremen's warning about the power of the Black
Elfstone.  He straightened on the window seat, shrugging off his
depression, his sense of purpose returning.

"Well, well, look at you, my friend," Jerle observed archly.  "I like
you better this way."

Tay stood up, anxious.  "How soon can we leave?"

A smile played at the corner of Jerle Shannara's lips.  "How soon can
you be ready?"

CHAPTER 11

THEY SET OUT AT DAWN of the following day, Tay and Jerle and the few
they had chosen to go with them, leaving the city quietly, while its
citizens were still waking and their departure would go unnoticed.
They were only fifteen in number, so it was not difficult to slip away
without being seen.  Tay and Jerle had advised the others of the little
company only the night before.  They were not being underhanded in
their stealth; they were simply being cautious.
The fewer who knew of their departure or who saw them leave, the fewer
who could talk about it.  Even idle conversation had a way of reaching
the wrong ears.  The High Council knew of their plans.
Alyten, still not returned from his hunting trip, would be told
later.
That was enough.  Even their immediate families did not know where they
were going or what they were about.  After what had happened to the
Ballindarrochs, no one was taking any unnecessary chances.

It was a worrisome situation they were leaving behind.
Ballindarroch hovered near death, and it was not clear yet whether he
would recover.  The High Council would manage the affairs of state in
his absence, as Elven law required, but as a practical matter would do
little until the king's fate was determined.  Alyten, as the only
surviving son, would rule in his father's place, but only nominally
until a formal coronation became necessary.  Life would go on, but the
business of governing would slow to a near halt.  The army would stay
on alert, its commanders doing what was necessary to protect the city
and its people and to a lesser extent the Elves living in the countryside
 beyond.  But the army's actions would be strictly defensive in
nature, and no one would advocate forays beyond the Westland borders
until Ballindarroch recovered or his son took his place.  That meant no
aid would be sent to the Dwarves.  So hidebound was the High Council on
this matter that it refused even to commit to sending word to the
Dwarves about what had befallen.  Both Tay and Jerle separately begged
the Council to do so, but they were told only that their request would
be considered.  Suddenly, secrecy became the order of the day.
Since there was nothing more they could do about the matter, Tay and
Jerle chose not to delay their departure.  The king would live or he
would die, Alyten would become king or he wouldn't, and the High
Council would send word to the Dwarves or stay silent-all of it would
work out one way or the other, and their presence in Arborlon would
change nothing.  It was better to get on with their search for the
Black Elfstone and make a difference where they could.

There were other reasons for leaving as well.  Two unexpected issues
had surfaced as a result of the assassinations, one affecting Tay, the
other Jerle.  Both lent urgency to their plans to depart the city.

As to the first, there were some who had begun wondering aloud why the
attack on the Elven royal family coincided so closely with Tay's return
from Paranor.  The Druids were respected, but they were also
mistrusted.  The ones who mistrusted them were few, but in the wake of
such a frightening and unexpected disaster, their voices were
commanding more attention.  The Druids wielded power and their ways
were mysterious, a combination that was inherently disturbing,
especially with their decision to isolate themselves from the general
populace following the First War of the Races.  Wasn't it possible,
the voices whispered, that the Druids were somehow involved in what had
happened to the Ballindarrochs?  Tay had gone to see the king and to
speak before the High Council the very night of the killings.  Had
there been an argument that angered Tay-that thereby angered all the
Druids?  Hadn't he been the first to enter the king's chamber while the
killings were taking place?  Was this simply a coincidence?  Did anyone
see what happened?  Did anyone see what he did?  It didn't matter that
the questions had already been addressed in one forum or an other, by
one official or another, and that no one in the High Council or army
seemed the least concerned about Tay's conduct.  What mattered was
that there were no definitive answers being offered and no indisputable
facts being supplied, and in their absence wild theories were bound to
flourish.

The second issue was even more troubling.  Because almost the entire
Ballindarroch family had been wiped out, there were some who were
saying that if Courtann Ballindarroch died, too, Jerle Shannara should
be king.  It was all well and good to ad here to the rules of
ascendancy, but Alyten was weak and inde cisive and not well liked by
the people he would govern.  And if he should falter, the next in line
to rule would be a child of four.  That meant years of regency rule,
and no one wanted that.
Besides, these were dangerous, demanding times, and they required a
strong ruler.  This attack on the royal family signaled the start of
something bad.  Everyone recognized that much.
The Northland was already conquered by the Warlock Lord and his winged
hunters and demon followers.  What if he turned on the Elves next?
There were rumors that his armies were on the move already, traveling
south.  Jerle Shannara was the king's first cousin and next in line to
rule if the Ballindarrochs were wiped out.  Perhaps it would be best if
he ruled now, regardless of who was left after Courtann.  A former
Captain of the Home Guard, a strategist to the army's high command, an
advisor to the High Council and the king, he was well suited.  Perhaps
the choice should be made regardless of precedent and protocol.
Perhaps it should be made quickly.

Tay and Jerle heard of these rumors soon enough, saw where they might
lead, and realized that the best way to deal with them was to remove
themselves from the scene until things settled down.  This loose talk
provided additional impetus beyond the urgency of their quest for them
to hasten their de parture, and they were quick to do so.  In
twenty-four hours, they put together their company, their supplies,
their transpor tation, and their travel plans, and set out.

It was raining when they departed, a cool, misty drizzle that had begun
falling several hours earlier and was showing no signs of abating.  The
roads and trails were already sodden, and the limbs and trunks of the
trees were stained black.  Mist crept out of the forest, risen from the
still warm earth, filling the gaps and crevices with strange
movement.
Gloom and damp shrouded everything, and the company moved through the
early dawn like wraiths chasing after night.  They traveled afoot,
carrying only their weapons and the food and clothing they would
require for twenty-four hours.  After that, they would wash what they
wore and hunt for their meals until they reached the Sarandanon, a hike
of approximately three days.
There they would be provided with horses, fresh clothing, and supplies
for the remainder of the journey west to the Breakline.

They were a diverse group.  Jerle Shannara had selected all but one.
He had done so with Tay's approval, because Tay had been gone too long
from Arborlon and the Elves to know who was best suited to help them in
their quest.  Elven Hunters were needed, fighters of the first rank,
and Jerle selected ten, which brought their number to twelve.
Preia Starle had already announced that she was going, as certain of
herself as ever, and neither Tay nor Jerle cared to challenge her.
Jerle chose another Tracker as well, a weathered veteran named Retten
Kipp, who had served with the Home Guard for better than thirty
years.
More than one Tracker would be necessary if they were to keep close
watch of their rear as well as their front.  Besides, if anything
happened to Preia, they would need a replacement.
Tay did not like hearing the words, but he could not find fault with
them.

That brought their number to fourteen.  Tay asked for one more.

The man he wanted was Vree Erreden.  It was an odd choice at first
glance, and Jerle was quick to say so.  Vree Erreden was not well
regarded among the Elves, a reclusive, distracted, shy man with little
concern for anything besides his work.  What he did was a source of
ongoing controversy.  He was a locat, a mystic who specialized in
finding people who were missing and objects that were lost.  How
successful he was at what he did was the subject of much debate.  Those
who believed in him possessed an unshakable faith.  Those who didn't
found him foolish and misguided.  He was tolerated because he enjoyed
occasional, verifiable success, and because the Elven people were
understanding of differences in general, having themselves been the
subject of much suspicion over the years in the eyes of the other
Races.  Vree Erreden did not himself make any claims about his
accomplishments the claims were provided by others.
But the origin of the claims did nothing to improve the image of the
man in the eyes of his detractors.

Tay was not among them.  Tay identified closely with Vree Erreden,
though he had never said so to anyone.  They were kindred spirits, he
believed.  Had Vree chosen to do so, he might have become a Druid.  His
skills would have allowed for the possibility, and Tay would have
recommended him.  Both were possessors of talents developed through
years of practice, Tay the elementalist, Vree the locat.  Tay's was the
more visibly demonstrable talent, however, utilizing magic and science
culled from the earth's resources, a harnessing of power that gave
clear evidence of what it was he could do.  Vree Erreden's talent, on
the other hand, resided almost entirey wit in, was passive in nature,
and was difficult to verify.  Mystics operated on prescience,
intuition, even hunches, all of them stronger than the instincts normal
men and women might experience, all of them impossible to see.  Locats
were once heavily in evidence, in a time when Elves and other faerie
creatures exercised such power routinely.  Now only a handful remained,
the others lost with the passing of the old world and the irrevocable
change in the nature of magic.  But Tay was a student of the old ways
and understood the origins of Vree Erreden's power, and it was as real
to him as his own.

He went to see the locat late on the afternoon of the day before the
scheduled departure and found him in his yard, bent over a tattered
collection of maps and writings, his small, slender form hunched
protectively, his hands tracing lines and words across the paper.  He
looked up as Tay came through the gate of the small, unremarkable
cottage, peering myopically at him as he approached.  The locat
squinted against the sunlight and his own failing sight.  Each year, it
was rumored, his eyes failed a little more-but as his eyes failed, his
intuition sharpened.

"It is Tay Trefenwyd," Tay announced helpfully, coming over so that the
light fell on his face.

Vree Erreden peered up at him without recognition.  Tay had been gone
for five years, so it was possible the man no longer remembered him.
Nor was Tay wearing the robes of his order, having reverted to the
loose-fitting Elven garb preferred by the Westland people, so it was
possible the locat was unable to identify him as a Druid either.

"I need your help in finding something," Tay continued, un daunted.
The other's thin face cocked slightly in response.  "If you agree to
help me, you will have the opportunity of saving lives, many of them
Elven.  It will be the most important finding you will ever
undertake.
If you succeed, no one will ever doubt you again."

Vree Erreden looked suddenly amused.  "That is a bold claim, Tay."

Tay smiled.  "I am in a position where I must make bold claims.  I
leave tomorrow for the Sarandanon and beyond.  I must convince you to
go with me when I do.  Time doesn't allow for a more subtle
persuasion."

"What is it you are looking for?"

"A Black Elfstone, lost since the end of the world of faerie, thousands
of years ago."

The small man looked at him.  He did not ask Tay why he had come to him
or question the strength of his belief.  He accepted that Tay had
faith in his power, perhaps because of who he was, perhaps because of
what he did.  Or perhaps because it didn't matter.  But there was
curiosity in his eyes-and a hint of doubt.

"Give me your hands," he said.

Tay stretched out his hands, and Vree Erreden clasped them tightly in
his own.  His grip was surprisingly strong.  His eyes met Tay's, held
them for a moment, then looked through them and beyond, losing focus.
He stayed like that for a long time, as still as stone, seeing
something hidden from Tay.  Then he blinked, released his grip, and sat
back.  A small smile played across his thin lips.

"I will come with you," he said, just like that.

He asked where they were to meet and what he was required to bring,
then turned back to his maps and writings without another word, the
matter forgotten.  Tay lingered just long enough to make certain there
was no further reason to stay, and then left.

So they numbered fifteen in the end as they departed Arborlon in the
slow rain of early dawn, cloaked and hooded and faceless in the gloom,
and they had come for reasons best known to themselves.  No one would
speak hereafter of these reasons.  No one would believe it made a
difference.  A decision made was a decision accepted.  Armored in that
conviction, they wound down out of the Carolan to where the Rill Song
churned within its banks, crossed on a ferry raft kept in service for
the city, and struck out west through the shadowed corridors of the
ancient woods.

They marched all day through the rain, which did not cease, though
after a time it lessened.  They stopped once for lunch and twice at
springs to refill their water skins, but they did not rest otherwise.
No one tired, not even Vree Erreden.
They were Elves and used to walking long distances, and all of them
were fit enough to keep up with Jerle Shannara's moderate pace.
The way was muddied and the footing uncertain, and on more than one
occasion they were forced to find a way across a ravine which had
flooded because of the rains.  No one complained.  No one said much of
anything.  Even when they stopped to eat, they sat apart from each
other, withdrawn into their cloaks from the weather, thinking their
separate thoughts.
Once Tay stopped Vree Erreden to tell him how much he appreciated his
decision to come with them, and the locat looked at him as if he had
lost his mind, as if he had just made the most ridiculous statement in
the history of mankind.  Tay smiled and backed off and did not try to
approach the other man again.

They moved steadily farther away from the mountains that warded
Arborlon and closer to the Sarandanon.  Night came, and they made
camp.
No fire was built, and the evening meal was eaten cold.  It was dark
and still within the trees, and there was no movement save for the
steady falling of the rain.  An other day or so would pass before
they were free of the woods and onto the open grasslands of the
valley.
The country would change dramatically then as they traveled through the
farm lands that produced the crops and livestock that fed the Elven
nation.  Beyond, the better part of a week's ride farther, waited the
Breakline and their destination.

Damp, chilled, and lost in thought, Tay sat by himself when the meal
was finished and stared out into the gloom.  Hoping to find something
he had missed, he replayed in his mind the vision of the Black Elfstone
that Bremen had been shown at the Hadeshorn.  The details of the vision
were familiar by now, smoothed out like wrinkled paper so that they
might be reexamined and considered at leisure.
Bremen had given him the de scription of the talisman's hiding place
just as it had been revealed by the shade of Galaphile, so that all
that remained was to find it again in real life.  There were several
ways that might happen.  The Trackers Preia Starle and Retten Kipp
might discover the Black Elfstone through an accumulation of physical
evidence in the course of their scouting.  Tay might discover it as an
elementalist, finding the breaks in the lines of power caused by the
talisman's magic.  And Vree Erreden might discover it by employing his
special skill as a locat, tracing the Elfstone as he would any other
lost object, through present thought and intuition.

Tay looked over at the locat, who was already asleep.  Most of the
others were sleeping as well by now, or in the process of drifting
off.
Even Jerle Shannara was stretched out, rolled into his blanket.  A
single Elven Hunter kept watch at one end of the camp, walking the
perimeter, drifting through the gloom, just another of night's
shadows.
Tay watched him for a moment, thinking of other things, then looked
again at Vree Erreden.

The locat had spied out Bremen's vision when he had taken hold of his
hands on that first visit.  He was certain of it now, though he hadn't
realized it at the time.  It was what had decided the locat on coming,
that momentary glimpse of a place lost in time, of a magic that had
survived a world now gone, of what once was known and might now be
revealed again.  The theft was a clever piece of work, and Tay admired
the other man's audacity in committing it.  It was not everyone who
would dare to pick the lock on a Druid's mind.

He rose after a while, still not sleepy, and walked out to stand where
the guard patrolled.  The Elven Hunter noted him, but made no move to
approach, continuing his rounds as before.  Tay looked out into the
sodden trees, his eyes adjusting to the light, seeing strange shapes
and forms in the rain, even in the absence of moon and stars.
He watched a deer pass, small and delicate in the concealment of the
gloom, eyes watchful, ears pricked.  He saw night birds speed swiftly
from branch to branch, hunters in search of food, finding it now and
again, diving with shocking quickness to the forest floor and then
lifting away, small creatures clutched tightly by claws and beaks.  He
saw in these victims an image of the Elven people if the War lock Lord
prevailed.  He imagined how helpless they would be when Brona began his
hunt.  Already there was a sense of being sought out, of being considered
prey.  While he did not like to contemplate it, he did not think the
feeling would diminish any time soon.

He was still considering what this meant when Preia Starle appeared out
of nowhere at his elbow.  He gasped in spite of himself, then forced
himself to recover as he saw the smile twitch at the corners of her
mouth.  She had been gone all day, leaving early with Retten Kipp to
scout the land ahead.  No one had known when either of them would be
back, Trackers having the freedom to do whatever they felt they must
and to keep to their own schedule.  She winked as she saw the shock
leave his face, replaced by chagrin.  Saying nothing, she took his arm
and led him back off the perimeter and into the camp.  She was wearing
loose-fitting forest clothing, with gloves and soft boots, and all of
it was soaked through.  Rain plastered her curly, short cropped,
cinnamon hair to her head and ran down her face.  She didn't seem to
notice.

She sat him down some yards away from where the other members of the
company were sleeping, choosing a dry spot beneath an oak where the
thickness of the grass offered some comfort.  She removed the brace of
long knives, the short sword, and the ash bow she carried, looking
altogether too fragile and young to be bearing such weapons, and sat
next to him.

"Can't sleep, Tay?"  she asked quietly, squeezing his arm.

He folded his long legs before him and shook his head.
"Where have you been?"

"Here and there."  She brushed the rain from her face and smiled.
"You didn't see me, did you?"

He gave her a rueful look.  "What do you think?  Do you enjoy
shortening people's lives by scaring them so?  If I wasn't able to
sleep before, how will I ever be able to sleep now?"


She suppressed a laugh.  "I expect you will manage.  You are a Druid
after all, and Druids can manage anything.  Take heart from Jerle.  He
sleeps like a baby all the time.  He refuses to stay awake, even when I
would have it otherwise."

She blinked, realizing what she had implied, and looked quickly away.
After a moment, she said, "Kipp has gone on ahead to the Sarandanon to
make certain that the horses and supplies are ready.  I came back to
tell you about the Gnome Hunters."

He looked sharply at her, waiting.  "Two large parties," she continued,
"both north of us.  There might be more.  There are a lot of tracks.  I
don't think they know about us.  Yet.  But we need to be careful."

"Can you tell what they are doing here?"

She shook her head.  "Hunting, I would guess.  The pattern of their
tracks suggests as much.  They are keeping close to the Kensrowe, north
of the grasslands.  But they may not stay there, especially if they
learn about us."

He was silent for a moment, thinking it through.  He could feel her
waiting him out, studying his face in the gloom.  Amid the sleepers, a
snore turned into a cough, and a bundled form shifted.
Rain fell in a slow patter, a soft backdrop against the black.

"Did you see any of the Skull Bearers?"  he asked finally.

She shook her head once more.  "No."

"Strange tracks of any kind?"

"No."

He nodded, hoping that was indicative of something.  Perhaps the
Warlock Lord had left his monsters at home.  Perhaps Gnome Hunters were
all they faced.

She shifted beside him, rising to her knees.  "Give Jerle my report,
Tay.  I have to go back out."

"Now?"

"Now is better than later if you want to keep the wolf from the
door."
She grinned.  "Do you remember that saying?  You used it all the time
when you were talking about going to Paranor and becoming a Druid.  It
was your way of saying you would protect us, the poor, homebound
friends you were leaving behind."

"I remember."  He took her arm.  "Are you hungry?"

"I've eaten already."

"Why not stay until dawn?"

"No."

"Don't you want to give your report to Jerle yourself?"

She studied him a moment, reflecting on something.  "What I want is for
you to give it for me.  Will you do that?"

The tone of her voice had changed.  She was not open to a discussion on
this.  He nodded wordlessly and took his hand away.

She rose, strapped the knives and sword back in place, took up the bow,
and gave him a quick smile.  "You think about what you just asked of
me, Tay," she said.

She slipped back into the gloom, and a moment later she was gone.
Tay sat where he was for a time, considering what she had said, then
climbed to his feet to wake Jerle.

RAIN FELL ALL THE FOLLOWING DAY, a steady downpour.  The company
continued on through the forest, keeping watch for Gnomes, staying
alert to everything.  The hours passed slowly, sunrise easing toward
sunset, the whole of the day marked by graying half-light filtered
through banks of clouds and water laden boughs.  Travel was slow and
monotonous.  They came upon no one in the woods.  In the sodden gloom,
nothing moved.

Night came and went, and neither Preia Starle nor Retten Kipp
returned.
By dawn of the third day, the company was nearing the Sarandanon.  The
rain had stopped and the skies had begun to clear.
Sunlight peeked through gaps in the de parting clouds, narrow shafts of
light come out of the bright blue.  The air warmed, and the earth began
to steam and bake.

In a clearing bright with sunlight on spring wildflowers, they came
upon Preia Starle's ash bow, broken and muddied.
There was no other sign of the Elf girl.

But the boot prints of Gnome Hunters were everywhere.

CHAPTER 12

DAYLIGHT WAS FADING and darkness edging out of the Anar as the last of
the Warlock Lord's vast army spilled from the Jannisson Pass onto the
grasslands of the northern Rabb.  It had taken all day for the army to
come down out of the Streleheim, for the Jannisson was narrow and
winding and the army encumbered by a train of pack animals, baggage,
and wagons that stretched for nearly two miles when set end to end.
The fighting men moved at varying rates, the cavalry swift and eager
astride their horses, the light infantry, bowmen, and slingers slower,
and the heavily armored foot soldiers slower still.  But none of the
army's various components was as plodding or trouble-plagued as the
pack train, which lumbered through the pass with an agonizing lack of
progress, stopped every few minutes by broken wheels and axles, by the
constant need for an untangling of traces and the watering of animals,
and by collisions, mix-ups, and traffic jams of all sorts.

It gave Risca, watching from the concealment of the Dragon's Teeth
half a mile to the south, a grim sense of satisfaction.
Anything to slow the dark ones, he kept thinking.  Anything to delay
their hateful progress south toward his homeland.

Trolls made up the greater part of the army, stolid, thick skinned, and
virtually featureless, looking more like beasts than like men.  The
largest and most fierce were the Rock Trolls, averaging well over six
feet in height and weighing several hundred pounds.  They formed the
core of the army, and their disciplined, precision-executed march
testified to their efficiency in battle.  Other Trolls were there
mostly to fill the gaps.
Gnomes dominated the cavalry and light infantry, the small, wiry
fighters a tribal race like the Trolls though less skilled and more
poorly trained.  They served in the army of the Warlock Lord for two
reasons.  First and foremost, they were terrified of magic, and the
Warlock Lord's magic exceeded anything they had believed possible.
Second and only slightly less compelling, they knew what had happened
when the larger, fiercer, and better armed Trolls had tried to resist,
and they had quickly decided to jump to the winning side before the
decision was made for them.

Then there were the creatures that had no name, beings brought over
from the netherworld, things come out of the black pits to which they
had been consigned in centuries past, freed now through the Warlock
Lord's magic.  In daylight, they stayed cloaked and hooded, indistinct
shapes in the shifting, swirling dust of the march, outcasts by
breeding and common consent.  But as the twilight descended and the
shadows lengthened, they began to shed their concealments and reveal
them selves-terrible, misshapen monsters that all avoided.  Among them
were the Skull Bearers, the winged hunters that served as Brona's right
arm.  Men themselves once, the Skull Bearers were Druids who had tested
the magic too frequently and deeply and been subverted.  These last
took flight now, lifting off into the dying light to begin casting
about for prey to feed their hunger.

And in the center of all, set squarely amid the hordes that swept it
inexorably onward like a raft on storm-tossed waters, was the huge,
black, silk-covered litter that bore the Warlock Lord himself.  Thirty
Trolls carried it forward through the army's ranks, its coverings
impenetrable in the brightest light, its iron stays studded with barbs
and razors, its pennants emblazoned with white skulls.  Risca watched
the creatures about it bow and scrape, conscious that while they could
not see him, their Lord and Master could easily see them.

Now, with night descending and the entire army down out of the
Northland and poised to march south to invade the Anar and conquer the
Dwarves, Risca sat back wearily within his rocky crevice and let the
shadows envelop him.  Bremen had been right, of course-right about
everything.  Brona had survived the First War of the Races and stayed
hidden all these years merely to gain strength so that he might strike
once again.  Now he was returned, this time as the Warlock Lord, and
the Trolls and Gnomes belonged to him, subjugated and made servants in
his cause.  If the Druids were destroyed as Bremen had foreseen they
would be-and Risca now believed it so there was no one left to
intervene on behalf of the free Races, no one left to wield the
magic.
One by one, they would fall Dwarves, Elves, and Men.  One by one, the
Four Lands would be subjugated.  It would happen quickly.  No one yet
believed it was possible, and by the time anyone did, it would be too
late.
Risca had seen now for himself the size of the Warlock Lord's army.  A
juggernaut, unstoppable, monstrous.  Only by uniting could the free
Races hope to prevail.  But it would take time for them to decide to do
this if left to their own devices.  Politics would slow any decision
making.  Self-interest would generate an ill-advised caution.
The free Races would debate and consider and be made slaves before
they realized what had happened to them.

Bremen had foreseen it all, and now it was left to the handful who had
believed him to find a way to prevent the inevitable from happening.

Risca reached into his pack, pulled out a piece of day-old bread he had
bought at the edge of the border settlements, and began to chew
absently on it.  He had left Bremen and the others of the little
company three days earlier at the mouth of the Hadeshorn.  He had come
east out of Callahorn to carry word to the Dwarves of the Warlock
Lord's approach, to warn them of the danger, and to persuade them that
they must make a stand against the Northland army.  But by the time he
had reached the western edge of the Rabb, he had decided that his task
would be made considerably easier if he could report that he had seen
the approaching army with his own eyes.  Then he could offer an
estimate of its size and strength and thereby be more persuasive in his
appeal.  So he had turned north and used a second day to reach the
Jannisson.  There, on this third day, he had crouched in hiding in the
foothills of the Dragon's Teeth, and watched the army of the Warlock
Lord come down out of the Streleheim it had grown larger and larger
until it seemed there would be no end to it.  He had counted units and
commands, animals and wagons, tribal pennants and standards of battle
until he had its measure.  It might as well have been the whole Troll
nation come to call.  It was the largest army he had ever seen.  The
Dwarves could never stand alone against it.
They could slow it, delay it perhaps, but they could not stop it.
Even if the Elves came to stand with them, they would still be badly
outnumbered.  And they had no magic of the sort wielded by Brona and
the Skull Bearers and the netherworld creatures.
They had no talismans.  They had only Bremen, Tay Trefenwyd, and
himself, the last of the Druids.

Risca shook his head, chewing and swallowing.  The odds were too
great.
He needed to find a way to even them up.

He finished his bread and drank deeply from the aleskin he carried
strapped across his shoulder.  Then he rose and moved back to the
precipice, where he could look down on the encamped army.  Fires had
been lit by now, the descent of night's darkness nearly complete, and
the plains were bright with clusters of flame and the air thick with
smoke.  The army sprawled for almost a mile, bustling with activity,
alive with sound and movement.  Food was being prepared and bedding
unrolled.  Repairs were being undertaken and plans laid.  Risca stared
down from his perch, disheartened and angry.  If strength of will and
rage alone could have stopped this madness, his would have been
sufficient.  He caught a glimpse of a pair of Skull Bearers as they
circled the inky skies beyond the aura of the firelight, searching for
spies, and he hunched down into the concealing rocks, becoming one with
the mountains, another colorless piece of the rough terrain.  His eyes
wandered the length and breadth of the campsite, but kept returning to
the black silken litter in which the Warlock Lord reposed.  It had been
lowered to the ground now, set deep within the army's midst,
surrounded by Trolls and other creatures less human, a small island of
silence within the teeming mass of activity.  No fires were lit close
to it.  No creatures approached from the light.  Blackness pooled about
it like a lake, leaving it solitary and marked as inviolate.

Risca's face hardened.  The trouble begins and ends with the monster
who occupies that tent, he was thinking.  The Warlock Lord is the head
of the beast that threatens us all.  Cut off the head, and the beast
dies.

Kill the Warlock Lord, and the danger ends.

Kill the Warlock Lord ...

It was a wild, reckless, impulsive thought, and he did not allow
himself to pursue it.  He shoved it aside and forced himself to
consider his responsibilities.  Bremen was depending on him.
He must bring word of this army to the Dwarves so that they could
prepare for the invasion of their homeland.  He must persuade the
Dwarves to engage an army many times its size in a battle they could
not hope to win.  He must convince Raybur and the Elders of the Dwarf
Council that a means would be found to destroy the Warlock Lord and
that the Dwarves must buy with their lives the time that was needed to
accomplish this.  It was a tall order and would require a great
sacrifice.  It would be up to him to lead them, the warrior Druid who
could stand against any creature the Warlock Lord might employ.

For Risca had been born to battle.  It was all he knew.  He grew to
manhood in the Ravenshorn, the son of parents who had lived their
entire lives in the Eastland wilderness.  His father was a scout and
his mother a trapper.  There had been eight brothers and sisters on his
father's side and seven on his mother's.  Most of them lived within a
few miles of one another still, and Risca had been raised by all at one
time or another.  Over the years of his boyhood, he saw as much of his
aunts and uncles and cousins as he did his parents.  There was a
sharing of responsibility for raising the young in his family.  The
Dwarves of this part of the world were constantly at war with the Gnome
tribes, and everyone was always at risk.  But Risca was equal to the
challenge.  He was taught to fight and hunt at an early age, and he
discovered that he was good at it-better than good, in fact.  He could
sense things the others could not.
He could spy out what was hidden from them.  He was quick and agile and
strong beyond his years.  He understood the art of survival.
He stayed alive when others did not.

At twelve, he was attacked by a Koden and killed the beast.
He was thirteen when one of a company of twenty that was ambushed by
Gnomes.  He alone escaped.  When his mother was killed setting lines,
he was only fifteen, but he tracked down those responsible and
dispatched them single-handedly.
When his father died in a hunting accident, he carried his body deep
into the heart of Gnome country and buried it there so that his spirit
could continue the fight against their enemies.
Half of his brothers and sisters were dead by then, lost to battle or
sickness.  He lived in a violent, unforgiving world, and his life was
hard and uncertain.  But Risca survived, and it was whispered when
they thought he could not hear, for he was super stitious where fate
was concerned, that the blade had not been forged that could kill
him.

When he was twenty he came down out of the Ravenshorn to Culhaven and
entered into the service of Raybur, newly crowned King of the Dwarves
and a much admired warrior himself.  But Raybur kept him in Culhaven
only a short time before sending him to Paranor and the Druids.
Raybur recognized Risca's special talents and believed the Dwarf people
would be best served if the young man with the warrior's heart and the
hunter's skills was trained by the Druids.  He, too, like Courtann
Ballindarroch of the Elves, knew of Bremen and admired him.
So a note was addressed to the old man, asking that he consider giving
young Risca special consideration as a student.  Thus bearing the note,
Risca traveled to Paranor and the Druid's Keep and stayed, becoming a
staunch follower of Bremen and a believer in the ways of the magic.

His eyes stayed fixed on the black silken tent in the enemy camp below
as he thought of the ways in which the magic now served him.  His was
the strongest after Bremen's-stronger these days perhaps, given his
youth and stamina and the other's age.  That was what he firmly
believed, though he knew Tay Trefenwyd would certainly argue the
matter.  Like Tay, Risca had studied assiduously the lessons taught by
Bremen, working at them even after the old man was banished, testing
himself over and over again.  He studied and trained virtually alone,
for no others among the Druids, even Tay Trefenwyd, considered
themselves warriors or sought to master the battle arts as he did.  For
Risca, the magic had but a single useful purpose-to protect himself and
his friends and to destroy his enemies.  The other uses of magic were
of no interest to him-healing, divining, prescience, empathics, mastery
of the sciences, elementalism, history, and conjuring.  He was a
fighter, and strength of arms was his passion.

The memories came and faded, and his thoughts returned to the matter at
hand.  What should he do?  He could not abandon his responsibilities,
but he could not ignore who he was either.
Below, the silken folds of the tent seemed to ripple in the faint dance
of the firelight.  One blow was all it would take.  How easily their
problems would be solved if he could deliver it!

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  He was not afraid of
Brona.  He was aware of how dangerous the other was, how powerful, but
he was not afraid.  He possessed considerable magic himself, and if he
employed it in a direct strike, he did not think that anyone or
anything could withstand it.

He closed his eyes.  Why was he even considering this?  If he failed,
there would be no one to give warning to the Dwarves!
He would have given his life for nothing!

But if he were to succeed ...

He eased back into the rocks, slipped off his travel cloak, and began
to strip away his weapons.  He supposed his mind had been made up from
the moment the idea had entered his head.  Kill the Warlock Lord and
put an end to this madness.
He was the best suited of any of them to make the attempt.
This was the ideal time, when the Northland army was still close to
home and Brona believed himself safe from attack.
Even if he died too, it would be worth it.  Risca was willing to make 
that sacrifice.  A warrior was always prepared to make that sacrifice.

When he was down to his boots, pants, and tunic, he shoved a dagger in
his belt, picked up his battle-axe, and started down through the
rocks.
It was nearing midnight by the time he reached the foot of the
mountains and started across the plains.  Overhead, the Skull Bearers
still circled, but he was behind them by now and cloaked in magic that
concealed him from their spying eyes.  They were looking outward for
enemies and would not see him.  He walked easily, loosely, his approach
silent in the black, the light of the campfires masking him from those
who might notice his approach.  Their sentry system was woefully
inadequate.  A perimeter of guards, a mix of Gnomes and Trolls, had
placed themselves too far apart and too close to the light to be able
to see anything coming in out of the dark.
The skies were clouded and the night air was hazy with smoke, and it
would take sharp eyes under the best of circumstances to catch sight of
any movement on the plains.

Still, Risca took no chances.  He came in at a crouch when the cover of
grasses and scrub thinned, picking his place of approach carefully,
choosing one of the Gnome sentries as a target.  Leaving the
battle-axe in the long grass, he went in with only the dagger.  The
Gnome sentry never saw him.  He dragged the body back out into the
grasses, concealed it, wrapped him self in the fellow's cloak, pulled
up the hood to hide his face, picked up the axe again, and started
in.

Another man would have thought twice about just walking right up to an
enemy camp.  Risca gave it barely any thought at all.  He knew that a
direct approach was always best when you were trying to catch someone
off guard, and that you tended to notice less of what was right before
your eyes than of what lurked at the fringes of your vision.

The tendency was to discount what didn't make sense, and a lone enemy
strolling right past you into the center of your own heavily armed camp
made no sense at all.

Nevertheless, Risca stayed at the edges of the firelight as he entered,
and he kept the cloak in place.  He did not skulk or lower his head,
for that would signal that something was wrong.
He moved as if he belonged and did not alter his approach.  He passed
the outer perimeter of guards and fires and moved into the center of
the camp.  Smoke wafted past him, and he used it like a screen.  Shouts
and laughter rose all about, men eating and drinking, telling tales and
swapping lies.  Armor and weapons clinked, and the pack animals
stamped and snorted in the hazy dark.  Risca moved through them all
without slowing, never losing sight of his destination, now a ragged
jut of poles and dark pennants lifting above the swarm of the army.  He
carried the battle-axe low against his side, and he projected him self
through his magic as a soldier of no consequence, as just another Gnome
Hunter on his way to somewhere unimportant.

He passed deep into the maze of fires and men, skirting wagons and
stacks of supplies, tethered lines of pack animals and menders engaged
in repair of traces and equipment, and vast racks of pikes and spears,
their shafts and armored tips angling skyward.  He kept to the portions
of the camp that were occupied by Gnomes when he could, but now and
again was forced to pass through clusters of Trolls.  He shied from
them as a Gnome might, deferential, wary, not showing fear, but not
challenging either, turning away from them as he approached, not quite
meeting the craggy, impersonal faces, the battle hardened stares.
He could feel their eyes settle on him and then move away.  But no one
stopped him or called him back.  No one found him out.

Sweat ran down his back and under his arms, and it was not from the
heat of the night.  Now men were beginning to sleep, to roll themselves
into their cloaks next to the fires and go quiet.  Risca went more
swiftly.  He needed the noise and the bustle to mask his movements.  If
everyone slept, he would seem out of place still moving about.  He was
closing on the Warlock Lord's haven now-he could see its canopy lifting
against the darkness ahead.  The number of fires was thinning out as he
approached, and the number of soldiers about them was dwindling.  No
one was allowed to come too close to the quarters of the Warlock Lord
and none wished to.  Risca stopped at the edge of a fire where a dozen
men lay sleeping.
Trolls, huge, hard-featured fighters, their weapons lying next to
them.
He ignored them, studying the open ground ahead.  A hundred feet
separated the black tent on all sides from the sleeping army.  There
were no sentries to be seen.  Risca hesitated.  Why were there no
guards?  He glanced about carefully, searching for them.  There were
none to be found.


At that moment, he almost turned back.  There was something wrong with
this, he sensed.  There should be guards.  Did they wait within the
tent?  Were they somewhere he could not see?  To find out, he would
have to cross the open ground between the closest of the watch fires
and the tent.  There was enough light to reveal his coming, so he would
have to use magic to cloak his approach.  He would be all alone out
there, and there would be nowhere to hide.

His mind raced.  Would there be Skull Bearers?  Were they all out
hunting or did some remain behind to protect the Master?  Did other
creatures stand guard?

The questions burned through him, unanswerable.

He hesitated a moment longer, glancing about, listening, testing the
air.  Then he tightened his grip on the battle-axe and started
forward.
He brought the magic up to shield him, to help him blend into the
night, to make him one with the darkness.
just a shading, so that even someone familiar with the magic would not
be warned.  Determination swept through him.  He could do this.  He
must.  He crossed the open ground, as silent as a cloud scudding across
a windswept sky.  No sounds reached out to him.  No movement caught his
eye.  Even now, he could find no one protecting the tent.

Then he was beside it, the air about him gone deathly still, the sounds
and smells and movements of the army faded away.
He stood close to the black silk and waited for his instincts to warn
him of a trap.  When they did not, he brought the edge of the
battle-axe, sharp as a razor, down the fabric's dark skin and slit it
open.

He heard something then-a sigh, perhaps, or a low moan.
He stepped quickly through the opening.

Despite the blackness of the enclosure, his eyes were able to adjust
immediately.  There was nothing there-no people, no furniture, no
weapons, no bedding, no sign of life.  The tent was empty.

Risca stared in disbelief.

Then a hiss rose out of the silence, low and pervasive, and the air
began to move in front of his face.  The blackness coa lesced, coming
together to form a thing of substance where a moment earlier there had
been nothing.  A black-cloaked figure began to take shape.

Risca realized what was happening and a terrible chill swept through
him, The Warlock Lord had been there all along, there in the darkness,
invisible, watching and waiting.  Perhaps he had even known of Risca's
coming.  He was not, as the Dwarf had believed, a creature of flesh and
blood that could be killed with ordinary weapons.  He had tran scended
his mortal shell through his magic and could now as sume any form-or no
form at all.  No wonder there were no guards.  None were needed.

The Warlock Lord reached out for him.  For a second Risca found that he
could not move and believed he would die with out being able to lift a
finger to save himself.  Then the fire of his determination broke
through his fear and galvanized him.
He roared in defiance at the terrible black shape, at the skeletal hand
that reached for him, at the eyes as red as blood, at his terror, at
fate's betrayal.  His battle-axe came up in a huge sweep, the fire of
his own magic sweeping its length.  The War lock Lord gestured, and
Risca felt as if iron bands had fastened themselves about his body.
With a tremendous effort, he snapped them asunder and flung the
battle-axe.  The weapon smashed into the cloaked form and exploded in
flames.

Risca did not wait to see the result of his strike.  He knew
instinctively that this was a battle he could not win.  Strength of
arms and fighting skills alone were not enough to defeat this enemy.
The moment he released the axe, he dove back through the opening in the
tent, scrambled to his feet, and broke for freedom.  Already shouts
were rising out of the firelight, and men were waking from their
sleep.
Risca did not look behind him, but he could feel Brona's presence like
a black cloud, reaching out for him, trying to drag him back.  He raced
across the open ground and leapt through the nearest fire, kicking at
the dying flames, scattering sparks and brands in every direction.  He
snatched up a sword from a sleeping man and dodged left into the haze
of smoke from the scattered fire.

Alarms rose from every quarter.  The hand of the Warlock Lord still
reached for him, tightening about his chest, but it grew weaker as he
widened the distance between them.  His wits had scattered, and he
tried to regain them.  A Troll appeared before him, challenging his
passage, and he left the dagger buried in the other's throat.  He
reacted instinctively, unable to think clearly yet.  Men were swirling
all about him, running in every direction, searching for the cause of
the uproar, still unaware that it was him.  He forced himself to slow,
to ignore the frantic beat of his pulse and the tightness about his
chest.
Shades!  He had come so close!  He moved swiftly now, but he no longer
ran.  By running, he drew attention to himself.  He summoned his magic,
abandoned at the moment of his flight, realizing for the first time
that he had almost lost control of it completely, that he had almost
given way to his fear.  He cloaked himself swiftly, then angled left
toward the open plains, a different direction than he had come, a
direction in which they would not think to look.  If he was discovered
and had to fight his way clear, he would be killed.  There were too
many for him.  Too many for any man, Druid or no.

Down through the camp he hastened, the heat of his en counter with the
Warlock Lord threatening to suffocate him.  He forced himself to
breathe evenly, to ignore the turmoil of the waking camp, the shouts
and cries, and the thudding of booted feet as squads of armed soldiers
were dispatched in every direction.  Ahead, he could see the blackness
of the plains appear, the sweep of emptiness that lay beyond the ring
of campfires.
Guards were standing all about the perimeter, but they were looking out
into the darkness in expectation of an attack from that direction.  He
had an almost irresistible urge to look back over his shoulder, to see
what might be following, but some thing warned him that if he did so he
would reveal himself.  Perhaps the Warlock Lord would see his eyes and
know who he was, even from within his concealment.  Perhaps he would
recognize his face.  Maybe that would be enough to undo him.
Risca did not turn.  He continued ahead, slowing to choose the point of
his escape as he neared the perimeter of the camp.

"You and you," he said to a pair of Gnomes as he passed between them,
not bothering to slow so that they could see his face, using their own
language to address them, a language he had spoken fluently since he
was ten.  He beckoned.  "Come with me."

They did not question.  Soldiers seldom did.  He had the appearance
and look of an officer, and so they went without argument.
He strode out into the darkness as if he knew what he was about, as if
he had a mission to perform.  He took them far into the night, then
dispatched them in opposite directions and simply walked away.  He did
not try to go back for his weapons and cloak, knowing it was too
dangerous.  He was fortunate to be alive, and it would not do to tempt
fate further.  He breathed the night air deeply, slowing his pulse.
Did Bremen know the nature of their enemy?  he wondered.  Did the old
man realize the power that the Warlock Lord possessed?  He must, for he
had gone into the monster's lair and spied on him.  Risca wished he had
asked a few more questions of the old man when he had the chance.  Had
he done so, he would never have considered attempting to destroy Brona
on his own.  He would have realized that he lacked the weapons.  No
wonder Bremen sought a talisman.  No wonder he relied on the visions of
the dead to advise him.

He searched the skies for the Skull Bearers, but he did not see them.
Nevertheless, he kept his magic in place so that he remained
concealed.

He walked out into the Rabb and turned southeast for the Anar.  Before
morning's light could reveal him, he would be safely within the
concealment of the trees.  He had escape to fight another day an could
count himself lucky to be able to say so.

But what sort of fight could he manage against an enemy like the
Warlock Lord?  What could he tell the Dwarves to give them hope?

The answers eluded him.  He walked on into the night, searching for
them.

CHAPTER 13

TWO DAYS LATER the Northland army was encamped within twenty miles of
Storlock.  The army had crossed the plains unhindered, angling east
toward the Anar, staying clear of the entangling forests, a huge,
sluggish worm inching its way steadily closer to the haven of the
Dwarves.  Watch fires burned in the distance against a twilight sky, a
bright yellow haze that stretched for miles across the flats.  Kinson
Ravenlock could see the glow from as far away as the edge of the
Dragon's Teeth below the mouth of the Valley of Shale.  The army would
have spent the afternoon crossing the Rabb River before settling in.
At sunrise it would resume its march south, which meant that by sunset
tomorrow it would reach a point directly opposite the village of the
Stors.

Which meant in turn, the Borderman realized, that he and Mareth must
cross the Rabb tonight, ahead of the army's advance, if they wished to
avoid being trapped on the wrong side of the plains.

He stood motionless in the shadow of a cleft in the rocks some fifty
feet above the plains and found himself wishing they had been able to
get this far a day earlier so that a night crossing would not have been
necessary.  He knew that with the coming of darkness Brona's winged
hunters would be abroad, prowling the open spaces that lay between them
and safety.  It was not an appealing thought.  He glanced back to where
Mareth sat rubbing her feet in an effort to alleviate the ache of the
day's forced march, her boots dumped unceremoniously on the ground
along with her cloak and their few provisions.  They could not have
come faster than they had, he knew.  He had pushed her hard just to get
this far.  She was still weak from her experience in the Druid's Keep;
her stamina drained quickly and she required frequent rests.  But she
had not complained once, not even when he had insisted they must forgo
sleep until they reached Storlock.  She had great determination, he
acknowledged grudgingly.  He just wished he understood her a little
better.

He looked back out at the plains, at the watch fires, at the darkness
as it rolled out of the east and descended in gathering layers across
the landscape.  Tonight it was, then.  He wished he had magic to hide
them on their passage, but he might as well wish he could fly.  He
could not ask her to use hers, of course.
Bremen had forbidden it.  And Bremen himself was absent still, so there
was no help to be found there.

"Come eat something," Mareth called to him.

He turned and walked down out of the rocks.  She had set out plates
with bread, cheese, and fruit, and poured ale into metal cups.
They had bartered for their provisions with a farmer above Varfleet
yesterday evening, and this was the last of what they had acquired.  He
sat down across from her and began to eat.  He did not look at her.
They were two days gone from fallen Paranor, having come down out of
the Kennon once more and turned east along the Mermidon, following it
below the wall of the Dragon's Teeth to here.  Bremen had sent them
ahead, had given them strict orders to go on without him, to follow the
Mermidon to the Rabb and then cross to Storlock.
There they were to inquire after a man the Druid believed was living
somewhere within the Eastland wilderness of the Upper Anar, a man of
whom Kinson had never heard.  They were to determine where he might be
found, and then they were to wait until Bremen could rejoin them.  The
Druid did not explain what it was that he would be doing in the
meantime.  He did not explain why they were looking for this unknown
man.  He simply told them what to do-told Kinson what to do, more to
the point, since Mareth was still sleeping at that juncture-and then
disappeared into the trees.

Kinson believed that he had gone back into the Druid's
Keep, and the Borderman once more wondered why.  They had fled Paranor
in a maelstrom of sound and fury, of magic un leashed and gone wild,
some of it Mareth's and some the Keep's itself.  It was as if a beast
had risen to devour them, and it had seemed to Kinson that he could
feel its breath on his neck and hear the scrape of its claws as it
pursued them.  But they had escaped to the forests without and hidden
there in night's fading dark while the rage of the beast vented itself
and died away.
They had remained in the shelter of the trees all the next day and let
Mareth sleep.  Bremen had tended her, obviously concerned at first,
but when she had come awake long enough to drink a cup of water before
sleeping again, he had ceased to worry.

"Her magic is too powerful for her" was how he had ex plained it to
Kinson.  They were keeping watch over her in the late-morning hours
after she had awakened and gone back to sleep again.  The sun was high
overhead, and the dark memory of the night before was beginning to
fade.  Paranor was a silent presence beyond the screen of the trees,
gone as still as death, emptied of life.  "it seems obvious that she
came to the Druids in an effort to find a way to better understand
it.
I suppose she was not with them long enough to do so.  Perhaps she
asked to come with us believing we might help her."

He shook his gray head.  "But did you see?  She summoned her magic to
protect me from the creatures Brona had left to ward against my return,
and instantly she lost all control!  She seems unable to judge the
measure of what is needed.  Or per haps judgment is not an issue at
all, and what happens is that on being summoned, her magic assumes
whatever form it chooses.  Whatever the case, it rolls out of her like
a flood!  In the Druid's Keep, it swallowed those creatures as if they
were gnats.  It was so powerful that it alerted the magic the Keep
maintains for its own protection, the earth magic set in place by the
first Druids.  This was magic I tested on my return to make certain it
could still guard against an attempt to destroy the Keep.  I could not
protect the Druids from the Warlock Lord, but I could ward Paranor.
Mareth's magic was so pervasive in its destruction of Brona's creatures
that it suggested that the Keep itself was in danger and thereby
conjured forth the earth magic as well."

"Hers is innate magic, you once said," Kinson mused.
"Where would it have come from to be so strong?"

The old man pursed his lips.  "Another Druid, perhaps.  An Elf who
carries the old magic in his blood.  A faerie creature, survived from
the old world.  It could be any of those."  He arched one eyebrow
quizzically.  "I wonder if even she knows the answer."

"I wonder if she would tell us if she did" was Kinson's reply.

Thus far she had barely spoken of it.  By the time she came awake,
Bremen had gone.  It was left to Kinson to advise her that she was not
to use her magic again until Bremen had returned and counseled her.
She accepted the edict with little more than a nod.  She said nothing
of what had happened in the Keep.  She seemed to have forgotten the
matter entirely.

He finished his meal and looked up again.  She was watching him.

"What are you thinking?"  she asked.

He shrugged.  "I was wondering about the man we are sent to find.
I was wondering why Bremen considers him so important."

She nodded slowly.  "Cogline."

"Do you know the name?"

She did not respond.  She seemed not to have heard.

"Perhaps one of your friends at Storlock will be able to help us."

Her eyes went flat.  "I have no friends at Storlock."

For a moment he simply stared at her, uncomprehending.
"But I thought you told Bremen .  . ."

"I lied."  She took a breath and her gaze fell away from his.
"I lied to him, and I lied to everyone at Paranor before him.  It was
the only way I could gain acceptance.  I was desperate to study with
the Druids, and I knew they would not let me if I did not give them a
reason.  So I told them I had studied with the Stors.  I gave them
written documents to support the claim, all false.  I deliberately
misled them."  Her gaze lifted.  "But I would like to stop lying now
and tell the truth."

The darkness was complete about them, the last of the day light faded,
and they sat cloaked within it, barely able to make each other out.
Because they would cross the Rabb that night, Kinson had not bothered
with a fire.  Now he wished he had so that he could better see her
face.

"I think," he said slowly, "that this might be a good time for the
truth.  But how am I to know if what you tell me is the truth or simply
another lie?"

She smiled faintly, sadly.  "You will know."

He held her gaze.  "The lies were because of your magic, weren't
they?"
he guessed.

"You are perceptive, Kinson Ravenlock," she told him.  "I like you for
that.  Yes, the lies were made necessary because of my magic.  I am
desperate to find a way to .  . ."  She hesitated, searching for the
right word.  "To live with myself.  I have struggled with my power for
too long, and I am growing weary and despairing.  I have thought at
times that I would end my life because of what it has done to me."

She paused, looking off into the dark.  "I have had the magic since
birth.  Innate magic, as I told Bremen.  That much was the truth.
I never knew my father.  My mother died giving birth to me.  I was
raised by people I did not know.  If I had relatives, they never
revealed themselves.  The people who raised me did so for reasons that
I have never understood.  They were hard, taciturn people, and they
told me little.  I think there was a sense of obligation, but they
never explained its source.  I was gone from them by the time I was
twelve, apprenticed to a potter, sent to his shop to fetch and haul
materials, to clean up, to observe if I wished, but mostly to do what I
was told.  I had the magic, of course, but like myself it had not yet
matured and was still just a vague presence that manifested itself only
in small ways.

"As I grew to womanhood, the magic blossomed within me.
One day the potter tried to beat me, and I defended myself out of
instinct, calling on the magic for protection.  I nearly killed him.  I
left then, and went out into the border country to find a new place to
live.  For a time, I lived in Varfleet."  Her smile returned.
"Perhaps we even crossed paths once upon a time.  Or were you already
gone?  Gone, I suppose."  She shrugged.  "I was attacked again a year
later.  There were several men this time, and they had more in mind
than a beating.  I called up the magic again.  I could not control
it.
I killed two of them.  I left Varfleet and went east."

Her smile turned mocking and bitter.  "You see a pattern to all this, I
imagine.  I began to believe I could live with no one because I could
not trust myself.  I drifted from community to community, from farm to
farm, earning my way however I could.  It was a useful time.  I
discovered new things about my magic.  It was not merely destructive;
it was also restorative.  I was empathic, I found.  I could apply the
magic and bring healing to those who were injured.  I discovered this
by accident when a man I knew and liked was injured and in danger of
dying from a fall.  It was a revelation that gave me hope.  The magic
used in this way was controllable.  I could not understand why, but it
seemed governable when called upon to heal and not to destroy.  Perhaps
anger is inherently less manageable than sympathy.  I don't know.

"In any case, I went to live with the Stors, to ask to be allowed to
study with them, to learn to use my skills.  But they did not know me
and would not accept me into their order.
They are Gnomes, and no member of another race has ever been allowed to
study with them.  They refused to make an exception for me.
I tried for months to persuade them otherwise, staying in their
village, watching them at their work, taking meals with them when they
would let me, asking for a chance and nothing more.

"Then one day a man came down out of the wilderness to visit with the
Stors.  He wanted something from them, some thing of their lore, and
they did not seem concerned in the least about giving it to him.  I
marveled.  After months of begging for scraps, I had been given
nothing.  Now this man appears out of nowhere, a Southlander, not a
Gnome, and the Stors can't wait to help him.  I decided to ask him
why."

She scuffed her boot against the earth as if digging at the past.
"He was strange-looking, tall and thin, all angles and bones,
pinch-faced and wild-haired.  He seemed constantly distracted by his
thoughts, as if it were the most difficult thing in the world to hold a
simple conversation.  But I made him speak with me.  I made him listen
to my story.  It became clear as I went along that he understood a
great deal about magic.  So I told him everything.  I confided in
him.
I don't know why to this day, but I did.  He told me the Stors would
not have me, that there was no point in remaining in the village.  Go
to Paranor and the Druids, he suggested.  I laughed.  They would not
have me either, I pointed out.  But he said they would.  He told me
what to tell them.  He helped me make up a story and he wrote the
papers that would gain me acceptance.  He said he knew something of the
Druids, that he had been a Druid once, long ago.  I was not to mention
his name, though.  He was not held in favor, he said.

"I asked his name then, and he told it to me.  Cogline.  He told me
that the Druids were no longer what they once were.
He told me that with the exception of Bremen they did not go out into
the Four Lands as they once had.  They would accept the story he had
provided for me if I could demonstrate my healing talents.  They would
not bother to check further on me because they were trusting to a
fault.  He was right.  I did as he told me, and the Druids took me
in."

She sighed.  "But you see why I asked Bremen to take me with him, don't
you?  The study of magic is not encouraged at Paranor, not in any
meaningful way.  Only a few, like Risca and Tay, have any real
understanding of it.  I was given no chance to discover how to control
my own.  If I had revealed its presence, I would have been sent away at
once.  The Druids are afraid of the magic.  Were afraid rather, for now
they are all gone."

"Has your magic grown more powerful?"  he asked as she paused.
"Has it become more uncontrollable?  Was it so when you called it up
within the Keep?"

"Yes."  Her mouth tightened in a hard line, and there were sudden tears
in her eyes.  "You saw.  It overwhelmed me completely.  It was like a
flood threatening to drown me.  I could not breathe!"

"And so you look to Bremen to help you find a way to master it, the
one Druid who might have an understanding of its power.

She looked directly at him.  "I do not apologize for what I have
done."

He gave her a long look.  "I never thought for a minute that you
would.
Nor do I propose to judge you for your choice.  I have not lived your
life.  But I think the lies should end here.  I think you should tell
to Bremen when we see him next what you have told to me.
If you expect his help, you should at least be honest with him."

She nodded, wiping irritably at her eyes.  "I intend that," she said.
She looked small and vulnerable, but her voice was hard.  She would
give up nothing further of herself, he realized.  She must have
agonized over telling him as much as she had.

"I can be trusted," she said suddenly, as if reading his mind.

"With everything but your magic," he amended.

"No.  Even with that.  I can be trusted not to use it until Bremen
tells me to."

He studied her wordlessly for a moment, then nodded.  "Fair enough."
He was thinking suddenly, unexpectedly, that they were much alike.
Both had traveled far to leave the past behind, and for neither was the
journey finished.  Both had bound them selves to Bremen, their lives
inextricably intertwined with his, and neither could envision now that
there had ever been any other choice.

He glanced at the sky and climbed to his feet.  "Time for us to be on
our way."

They blackened their faces and hands, tied down their metal implements
and weapons so they would not clink, went down from their hiding place
in the rocks, and set out across the Rabb.  The night air was cool and
soft, a small breeze blowing out of the foothills and carrying with it
the scents of sage and cedar.  Clouds drifted overhead, screening away
the half moon and stars so that their light was diffused and they 
appeared only in brief glimpses.  Sound traveled far on such a night, so
Kinson and Mareth walked softly, carefully in the tall grasses,
avoiding the loose rock that might betray their presence.  North, the
light of the encamped army was a blaze of smoky saffron against the
dark, stretched between the Dragon's Teeth west and the Anar east.
Every so often Kinson would stop and listen, picking out the sounds
that belonged, wary of those that didn't.  Mareth followed a step
behind and did not speak.
Kinson could feel her there without having to look, a shadow at his
back.


The hours passed, and the plains stretched away about them, lengthening
as they crossed so that for a time it appeared they were making no
headway.  Kinson kept watch over the clouded skies, wary of the winged
hunters that would be prowling the night.  He kept watch out of habit
and not because he expected to see the dark ones.  He had learned from
experience that he would feel them first, and when he did he must hide
at once, for if he waited until he saw them it would be too late.
But the unpleasant tingling, the rush of chilling trepidation, the
warning of something untoward did not come, and with Mareth following
dutifully, he pressed on.

They stopped once to drink from their aleskins, crouching down in a
twisting gully choked with brush, sitting close together in the dark.
Kinson found himself wondering what it must have been like for her,
bereft of family and friends, made outcast by her magic, left homeless
by circumstance and choice alike.  She showed courage, he thought, in
persevering, in not giving up when it would have been easy for her to
do so.  Nor had she compromised herself or others in choosing her
path.
He wondered how much of this Bremen had deduced in making his decision
to allow her to accompany them.  He wondered how well Mareth had
succeeded in deceiving the old man.  Not so well as she thought, he
suspected.  He knew from experience that Bremen could look inside you
as if you were made of glass and see all the working parts.  That was
one reason he had managed to stay alive all these years.

Sometime after midnight one of the Skull Bearers crossed their path.
He came out of the east, from the direction in which they were
proceeding, surprising Kinson, who was thinking any danger would come
from the north.  He sensed the creature and went down on his face in a
patch of brush immediately, dragging Mareth after him.  He could tell
from the look on her face that she knew what was happening.  He pulled
her close against him, deep within the concealment.

"Do not look up," he whispered.  "Do not even think of what flies above
us.  It will sense us if you do."

They lay against the earth as the creature flew closer and the fear
within them grew until it rushed through them like the sun's heat at
midday.  Kinson forced himself to breathe normally and to think of days
gone when he was a boy hunting with his brothers.  He held himself
quiet, his body still, his muscles relaxed, his eyes closed.  Pressed
against him, Mareth matched his breathing and his poise.  The Skull
Bearer passed overhead, circling.  Kinson could feel it, knowing how
close it was from experience, from his days spent scouting in the
Northland, when the winged hunters had scoured the land in which he
traveled every night.  Bremen had taught him how to avoid them, how to
survive.  The feelings the monsters generated could not be avoided, but
they could be endured.  The feelings alone, after all, could not cause
harm.  Mareth understood.  She did not shift or tremble within the
crook of his arm.  She did not attempt to rise or bolt from their
hiding place.  She lay as he did, patient and determined.

At last the Skull Bearer flew on, moving to another part of the plains,
leaving them shaken, but relieved.  It was always like this, Kinson
thought, climbing to his feet.  He hated the feeling, hated the shame
it generated within him to have to cower so, to have to hide.
But he would have hated dying more.

He gave Mareth a reassuring smile, and they walked on into the night.

THEY REACHED STORLOCK just before dawn, wet and bedraggled from a
sudden shower that had caught them only a mile or so from the
village.
Sad-faced and deferential, the white-robed Stors came out to meet them
and take them inside.  Hardly a word was spoken words did not seem
necessary.  The Stors appeared to recognize them both and asked no
questions.  It was possible they were remembered from before, Kinson
thought as he was led in out of the weather.  Mareth had lived among
the Stors, and he had visited them on several occasions with Bremen.
In any case, it made things simpler.  Though typically aloof and
preoccupied, the Stors were generous with both food and shelter.  As if
they had been expecting their guests all along, the Stors provided hot
soup, dry clothes, and beds in guest rooms in the main building.
Within an hour of their arrival, Kinson and Mareth were asleep.

When they woke, it was late afternoon.  The rain had stopped, so they
stepped outside to look around.  The village was quiet, and the
surrounding forest felt empty of life.  As they walked the roadways
from one end to the other, Stors passed wraithlike and silent in
pursuit of their tasks, barely looking up at the strangers.  No one
approached them.  No one spoke.  They visited several of the hospitals
where the Healers were at work on the people who had come to them from
various parts of the Four Lands.  No one seemed concerned that they
were there.
No one asked them to leave.  While Mareth stopped to play with a pair
of small Gnome children who had been burned in a cooking accident,
Kinson walked outside and stood looking off into the darkening trees,
thinking of the dangers posed by the approach of the Northland army.

At dinner, he told Mareth of his concern.  The army would have reached
a point on the Rabb close to where the village lay.
If there was a need for food or supplies, as there almost always was,
scouts would be sent to forage and Storlock would be in real danger.
Most knew of the Stors and the work they did, and they respected their
privacy.  But Brona's army would be held to a different code of
conduct, a different set of rules, and the protections normally
afforded the village would likely be absent.
What would become of the Stors if one of the Skull Bearers came
prowling?  The Healers had no means of protecting them selves; they
knew nothing of fighting.  They relied solely on their neutrality and
disinterest in politics to keep them safe.  But where the winged
hunters were concerned, was that enough?

While mulling this dilemma over, they asked after Cogline and
discovered almost immediately where he could be found.  It seemed not
to be any great secret.  Cogline kept in regular contact with the
Stors, preferring to deal with them to obtain what he needed as opposed
to the trading posts that dotted the fringes of the wilderness into
which he had retreated.  The once-Druid had made his home deep within
the Anar, in the seldom traversed tangle of Darklin Reach at a place
called Hearthstone.  Even Kinson had never heard of Hearthstone, though
he knew of Darklin Reach and regarded it as a place to be avoided.
Spider Gnomes lived there, wiry, barely human creatures so wild and
primitive they communed with spirits an sacrificed to old gods.
Darklin Reach was a world frozen in time, unchanged since the advent of
the Great Wars, and Kinson was not pleased to learn that they would
probably have to travel there.

After dinner was completed and the Stors had drifted back to whatever
work commanded their attention, the Borderman sat with the girl on a
hard-backed bench on the dining-hall porch and looked out at the
gathering gloom.  His thoughts were distracting to him.  Bremen had not
appeared.  Perhaps he was still at Paranor.  Perhaps he was trapped on
the other side of the Rabb, with the Northland army settled between
them.
Kinson did not like the uncertainty of it.  He did not like being
forced to await the Druid's arrival, kept idle when he would rather be
active.  He could wait when it was necessary, but he questioned the
reason for waiting now.  It seemed to him that Bremen should have sent
him on ahead to look for Cogline, even if it meant going into Darklin
Reach.  It felt to him as if time was slipping away from them all.

A line of Stors appeared from the hall, cloaked and hooded, withdrawn
and secretive.  They went down the porch steps and across the roadway
to another building, their white forms slowly fading into the gray haze
of twilight, ghosts in the night.

Kinson wondered at their single-mindedness, at the peculiar mix of
dedication to work and obliviousness to the world be yond their tiny
village.  He glanced at Mareth, trying to picture her as one of them,
wondering if she still wished she had been accepted into their order.
Would the isolation better agree with her, beset by the dictates of her
magic's use, by the threat of its escape?  Would she feel less
constrained here than at Paranor?
The puzzle of her life intrigued him, and he found himself thinking of
her in ways he had never thought of anyone else.

He slept poorly that night, plagued by dreams rife with faceless,
threatening creatures.  When he came awake shortly before dawn, he was
on his feet and had his sword in hand all most before he realized what
he was doing.  There were voices without, harsh and guttural, and he
could hear the ring and
scrape of armor.  He knew at once what had happened.  Leaving his boots
behind, taking only his sword, he eased from his bedroom and slipped
down the hallway to the front entry where a bank of windows opened onto
the main street.  Keeping to the shadows, he peered out.

A large Troll raiding party had appeared in the roadway and was facing
a small cluster of Stors who stood on the steps of the main healing
center across the way.  The Trolls were armed and threatening; their
gestures made it clear that they intended to go inside.  The Stors were
not opposing them in an overt manner, but neither were they giving
way.  The angry voices belonged to the Trolls the Stors were silent
and stoic in the face of the intruders' threats.  Kinson could not tell
what the Trolls wanted-whether it was food and supplies or something
more.
But he could tell that the Trolls were not going to give up on their
demands.  They understood as clearly as he did that there was no one in
the village to oppose them.

Kinson stared from darkened building to shadowed walk way, from heavy
forest to open road, and considered his options.  He could stay where
he was and hope that nothing happened.  If he did that, he was
condemning the Stors to what ever fate the Trolls decided upon.  He
could attack the Trolls from the rear and probably kill as many as four
or five before the rest overpowered him.  Not much would be
accomplished with that.  Once he was killed, as he surely would be, the
Trolls would be free to do as they chose with the Stors anyway.  He
could try a diversion.  But there was nothing to guarantee that he
would draw all of the Trolls away from the village or that they would
not return later.

He thought suddenly of Mareth.  She had the power to save these
people.
Her magic was powerful enough to incinerate the entire Troll raiding
party before even one could blink.  But Mareth was forbidden to use her
magic, and without her magic she was as vulnerable as the Stors.

Across the way, one of the Trolls had begun to climb the steps onto the
porch, his huge pike lowered menacingly.  The Stors waited for him,
white-robed sheep in the path of a wolf.
Kinson gripped his sword tighter and moved to the front door, easing it
carefully open.  Whatever he was going to do, he was going to have to
do it quickly.

He was ready to step out from the shadows of the doorway when a shriek
arose from the midst of the beleaguered Stors.
Someone pushed through them from out of the building they warded, a
shambling, half-clothed figure that tottered and flailed as if beset by
a form of madness.  Rags trailed from the figure, the bindings for
wounds that now lay open and weeping.
The creature's face was ravaged by sores and lesions, the body made
frail by a wasting disease that had left the bones taut against the
mottled and withered skin.

The figure stumbled from the midst of the Stors to the edge of the
porch, wailing in despair.  The Trolls brought up their weapons
guardedly, the foremost falling back a step in shock.

"Plague!"  the ravaged creature howled, the word rising up in the
silence, harsh and terrible.  A swarm of insects rose off the
creature's back, buzzing madly.  "Plague, plague everywhere!
Flee!  Flee!"

The creature swayed and dropped to its knees.  Bits of flesh fell from
it, and blood dripped from its open wounds onto the wooden steps,
steaming in the cool night air.  Kinson winced in horror.  The disease
was causing it quite literally to fall apart!

It was all too much for the Trolls.  Soldiers to the core, they were
brave in the face of enemies they could see, but as terrified of the
invisible as the meekest shopkeeper.  They fell back in disarray,
trying not to show fear, but determined not to stay an other moment in
close proximity to the disaster that had collapsed on the steps before
them.  Their leader waved off the Stors and their village in a gesture
of anxious defiance, and the entire patrol hurried back down the
roadway in the direction of the Rabb and disappeared into the trees.

When they were gone, Kinson stepped into the light, sword lowering as
the pulse of his body slowed and the heat of his blood cooled.  He
looked back at the Stors across the way, finding them clustered about
the strange apparition, heedless of the disease that ravaged it.
Forcing himself to ignore his own fear, he crossed to see if he could
be of help.

On reaching them, he found Mareth standing in their midst.

"I broke my promise," she said, her large dark eyes anxious, her smooth
face troubled.  "I'm sorry, but I could not stand by and see them
harmed."

"You used your magic," he guessed, amazed.

"Just a little.  just that part that goes into the healing, the part I
use as an empath.  I can reverse it to make what is well appear
sick."

"Appear?"

"Well, mostly."  She hesitated.  He could see the weariness now, the
dark circles about her eyes, the lines of fading pain etched at the
corners of her mouth.  Sweat beaded her forehead.
Her fingers were crooked and rigid.  "You understand, Kinson.  It 
was necessary.

"And dangerous," he added.

Her eyelids fluttered.  She was on the verge of a real collapse.
"I am all right now.  I just need to sleep.  Can you help me walk?"

He shook his head in dismay, picked her up without a word, and carried
her back to her room.

THE FOLLOWING DAY, the Northland army decamped and moved south.
One day later, Bremen appeared.  Mareth had recovered from the effects
of her magic and looked strong and well again, but Bremen appeared to
have taken her place.  He was haggard and worn, dust-covered and
spattered with mud, and clearly angered.  He ate, bathed, dressed in
fresh clothing, and then told them what had kept him.  After making
certain that the magic that warded the Druid's Keep was returned to its
safehold and that the Keep was intact, he had gone once more to the
Hadeshorn to speak with the spirits of the dead.  He was hoping that he
might learn more of the visions he had been shown on his last visit,
that something further might be revealed to him.
But the spirits would not speak, would not even appear, and the waters
of the lake rose up in such fury at his summons that they threatened to
inundate him, to drag him down into their depths for the audacity of
his intrusion.  His voice took on an edge as he described his
treatment.  He had been given all the help he was going to get, it
appeared.  Their fate, from here forward, was largely in their own
hands.

On being asked of Cogline, he demurred.  Time enough for that later.
For now, they would have to be patient and let an old man catch up on
his sleep.

Kinson and Mareth knew better than to argue.  A few days of rest were
clearly necessary to restore the old man's strength.

But before the sun had risen the following day, the Druid collected
them from their beds and in the deep, predawn silence took them out of
the still sleeping village of the Stors to ward Darklin Reach.

CHAPTER 14

WITH PREIA STARLE and Retten Kipp still absent and the Sarandanon
drawing near, Tay Trefenwyd now assumed the point position for the
little company from Arborlon.  Jerle Shannara objected, but not
strongly, conceding Tay's argument that with his Druid skills he was
best suited to keep watch against whatever threatened.  Tay spun out a
faint webbing of magic, strands that extended like nerve endings to
warn him of what waited ahead.  Using his Druid training, he drew upon
his command of the elements to test for the presence of intruders.

Nothing revealed itself.

Behind him, the others fanned out, keeping watch left and right.
The morning warmed, the dampness of the past two days dried, and the
trees ahead thinned so that the valley of the Sarandanon grew visible,
its broad sweep spreading away into the haze of the mountains farther
west.

Tay's mind wandered.  For the first time since his return from Paranor,
he allowed himself to consider what losing Preia Starle might mean.  It
was an odd exercise, since she had never really been his to lose in the
first place.  To the extent that she belonged to anyone, she belonged
to jerle.  She had always be longed to him, and Tay had known it.  But
he realized that he had thought of her as his anyway, that he had loved
her stead fastly and without bitterness toward Jerle, accepting as
settled her relationship with his best friend, content to keep her as
he might a memory that he could call up and admire but never really
possess.  He was a Druid, and Druids did not take mates, their lives
given over to the pursuit of knowledge and the dissemination of
learning.  They lived apart and they died alone.
But their feelings were the same as those of other men and women, and
Tay understood that somehow he had always been sustained by his
feelings for Preia.

What would it mean for him if she was gone?

The question burned through him like fire, heating his blood, searing
his skin, threatening to immolate him.  He could barely get through the
question, let alone address the answer.
What if she was dead?  He had always been prepared to lose her in other
ways.  He knew that she would marry Jerle one day.
He knew that they would have children and a life apart from him.
He had separated himself from any other possibility long ago.  He had
left all that behind when he had gone to live among the Druids, to be a
member of their order.  He recognized that what he felt for her could
find no expression in real life, but must remain a fantasy locked
within his imagination that she was never to be more to him than a
close friend.

But thinking of her dead, of her life ended, forced him to concede what
before he could never admit-that he had always harbored the hope,
however faint, that somehow the impossible might happen and she would
forsake Jerle to become his.

The realization was so strong that for a moment he lost track of where
he was, let loose the strands of his seeking magic, gave up the sweep
of the dark places that waited ahead, and was made blind to everything
but this single truth.  Preia his-he had kept the dream alive and
carefully protected in the secretmost corner of his mind.
Preia his, because he could not stop himself from wanting her.

Oh, shades!

He recovered himself in the next instant, gathered up the lines of his
magic, and pushed on.  He could not afford such thoughts.  He did not
dare to think further of Preia Starle.  The admonishments of Bremen
came rushing back, words spoken with the iron weight of armor being
fastened to his body.  Per suade the Elves to come to the aid of the
Dwarves.  Find the Black Elfstone.  Those two charges ruled his life.
Nothing else mattered.  There were lives beyond his own and those of
the people he loved that depended on his perseverance, on his 
diligence, on his resolve.  He looked off into the haze of the valley
ahead and carried himself out from the present and into the future by
strength of will alone.

By midday, they had crossed into the Sarandanon.  Twice more, they
encountered the tracks of Gnome Hunters in large numbers without seeing
the Gnomes themselves.  The Elves were edgy now, anxious to gain the
mounts they had been promised and to be gone from this region.  If they
were caught out in the open by a superior force with no way to flee,
they would be in serious trouble.  Tay searched the earth and air for
Gnomes and found signs of their passing all about, but still no actual
presence.  The Gnomes, he decided, were crisscrossing the valley's east
end in search of them.  If they had found Preia, they would know she
was not alone.  A Tracker would be with a larger party, scouting ahead
for them.  Had they found Preia then?  Was he conceding as much?  It
seemed an unavoidable conclusion, given the discovery of her broken bow
amid the cluster of enemy footprints.  All of which led once more to
the inevitable second question he was so desperately trying to avoid.

Jerle knew all of the valley outposts where horses were kept quartered
for Elven Hunter use, and he made for the closest.
The land was rolling and thick with tall grasses where the crop fields
did not extend.  They kept to these, staying down off the hills.
When they were less than a mile from their destination, Tay gained a
strong sense of Gnome Hunters and brought the party to a stop.
Somewhere close ahead, a trap had been set.
The Gnomes were expecting them.  Leaving the others to await their
return, Tay and Jerle went on alone, working their way south and then
north again to come in from a different direction than the one from
which they were expected.  Tay's magic sheltered them from discovery
and gave them eyes with which to see.  By the time they neared the
small cluster of buildings that formed the outpost, Tay had determined
that it was here the trap had been laid.  The wind, no more than a soft
breeze, blew into their faces, and both could smell the enemy clearly,
a rough mix of body oil and earth, heavy and pungent.  No effort was
being made to disguise it.  Tay was instantly alarmed.
Gnome Hunters would normally be more cautious than this.
They crawled to where they could see one side of the barn and the whole
of the paddock in which the horses were kept.  There was nothing
there.
The paddock was empty.  No one moved in the yard.  No sounds came from
the house.

Yet something was hidden there.  Tay was certain of it.

Unwilling to leave without determining what had happened, both of them
thinking separately and without saying so that Preia Starle might be
involved, they eased their way along a drainage ditch behind a pasture
of new wheat, so that they could see the front of the house and barn.
Tay could now sense movement in both buildings, restless and furtive.
Gnome Hunters, waiting.  He tried to sense the presence of anything
else, of anything more dangerous.  Nothing.  Tay breathed slowly,
easily, following Jerle's lead as his friend slipped silently ahead.
He was conscious of the wheat stalks singing faintly with their movement
 in the wind and of the deep, vast silence of the land be yond.  He
was reminded of what it had felt like when they had slipped into the
house of the Ballindarrochs on the night of the slaughter-of the sense
of foreboding, of the whisper of doom.

Then they were where Jerle wanted them, still concealed within the
wheat, but close enough to see the front of the out post.  Jerle lifted
his head slightly and then dropped quickly down again, his face
ashen.
Tay stared at him a moment, searching his eyes, then rose cautiously to
look for himself.


Retten Kipp hung spread-eagied from the barn door, where nails had been
driven through his hands and feet to hold him in place.  Blood dripped
from his wounds and stained the splintered wood.  Hair and clothes
drooped limply, as if from the stick frame of a scarecrow.  But then
Kipp's head lifted slightly.
The old Tracker, though dying, was still alive.

Tay sank down, eyes closing momentarily.  Rage and fear coursed through
him, struggling for control of his reason.  No wonder the Gnomes had
not worked harder at hiding their presence.  With Retten Kipp to bait
their trap, they knew the Elves must show themselves.  He fought to
bring his feelings under control, staring grim-faced at Jerle
Shannara.

His friend's blue eyes were cold and steady as he bent close.
"Do they have Preia as well?"  he whispered.

Tay did not reply.  He did not trust himself.  Instead, he closed his
eyes a second time and sent his threads of magic into the house and
barn, searching for the Elf girl.  There was risk in this, but he saw
no other way.  He took his time, going deep in side each building to
make certain.

Then he let his eyes open again.  "No," he breathed.

Jerle nodded, letting nothing show in his face of what that meant to
him.  His mouth twisted.  His words were barely audible.  "We cannot
save Retten Kipp-but we cannot leave him either."

He stared at Tay, waiting.  Tay nodded.  He knew what Jerle was
asking.
"I understand," he breathed softly.

This would be dangerous, he knew.  The Gnome Hunters might not sense
his use of the magic, but a Skull Bearer most certainly would.
He had not discovered any of the winged hunters in his search for
Preia, but they might be deliberately concealing themselves.  This trap
might have been designed specifically for him, one of the Druids they
hunted, to bring him to them and then to draw him out.  If a Skull
Bearer was present and he did what Jerle wanted, they were lost.
Still, there was little choice.  jerle was right.  They could not leave
Kipp to die this way.

He summoned his magic and wrapped himself in its dark cloak, stirring
the air about him with its power, feeling the heat of its passion rise
within his chest.  He kept his eyes open, for this time his use of the
magic would require sight and direction.

His face altered and assumed the character of a death mask.
He watched Jerle shrink from him, dismayed.  He understood the look.

Then he lifted his head just high enough so that he could see Retten
Kipp's ragged, tortured form and spun the magic to ward him along the
slender thread of his life line.  He pro ceeded cautiously, testing the
ether he penetrated, wary of what he might find waiting.
But nothing revealed itself, and so he continued on.  When he reached
Retten Kipp's heart, when he could feel his pain and suffering, when he
could hear the sound of his ragged breathing as if it were his own, he
drew away the air that fed the old man's failing lungs and then waited
patiently until his breathing stopped.

When it was finished, he slid down next to Jerle, his face shiny with
sweat.  There were tears in his eyes.  "Done," he whispered.

Jerle Shannara put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently to
comfort him.  "It was necessary, Tay.  He was in pain.
We could not simply leave him."

Tay nodded wordlessly, knowing Jerle was right, but knowing as well
that his friend would not have to live with the memory of Retten
Kipp's life thread pulsing gently between his fingers and then going
still.  He felt cold and empty.  He felt ravaged and abandoned.

Jerle beckoned to him, and together they made their way back along the
ditch and through the fields, leaving the outpost and its inhabitants,
living and dead, behind.

IT TOOK THEM the better part of an hour to reach their comrades.
By now it was nearing midafternoon, and the sun was lowering toward the
jagged tips of the Breakline.  They walked into its burning glare,
half-blind when they were forced to move out of the shadow of the
fields and hills and along the flats.  Tay continued to lead, his magic
spread out before them in a wide net, searching.  He had checked for
pursuit after their return from the farmhouse, but found none.  Ahead,
however, there were hints of Gnome Hunters at almost every turn.  He
could not tell how strong the parties were, but there were several.
They had discussed waiting until dark before proceeding, but had
decided it was more dangerous to remain in one place than to go on.
Jerle stayed close, guiding him toward the secondary outpost that lay
a few miles farther on, hopeful that this one might not have been
discovered.  Neither spoke.  All about them, the others of the company
scanned the countryside for enemies.

Then suddenly Vree Erreden was at Tay's elbow, his small, slight form
pressing close, his pinched face eager.  "There!"
He pointed sharply left.  "Horses, a dozen or more, hidden in that
draw!"

Tay and Jerle stopped and stared, seeing nothing beyond a line of
fields planted thick with early corn.

The locat's eyes darted from one face to the other, his im patience
obvious.  "Don't waste your time looking!  You can't see them from
here!"

"Then how do you know?"  Jerle asked quickly.

"Intuition!"  the other snapped.  "How else?"

The big man glanced over doubtfully.  "The outpost we seek lies just
head.  Are there horses there as well?"

Vree Erreden's voice was sharp with urgency.  "I only know what my
intuition tells me!  There are horses left, in a draw be yond those
hills!"  He pointed again for emphasis.

Jerle Shannara frowned, irritated by the other's insistence.
"What if you are wrong, locat?  How far is it to this draw that none of
us can see?"

Tay held up his hand quickly to forestall Vree Erreden's angry reply.
He stood silent a moment, weighing the choice, then gazed out across the
fields one final time.  "Are you sure about the horses?"  he asked the
small man quietly.

The look the other gave him was withering.  Tay's smile cocked
slightly, and he nodded.  "I think we should see what lies left."

Despite Jerle's continued misgivings, they changed course, making their
way across the flats.  The central bowl of the Sarandanon spread away
before them, the planting fields a sprawling patchwork quilt of raw
earth and new crops.  They were out in the open now and clearly visible
to whoever might be looking for them.  There was no help for it.
Whichever way they traveled they were exposed, and Tay took what
comfort he could from that, because they were moving away from the 
outpost and if Vree Erreden was mistaken or had somehow been misled, their
chances of escape were diminished considerably.
Tay tried not to worry.  It was for this that he had brought the
locat-his ability to sense what even Druid magic could not.
The little man would not have said anything if his instincts were not
strong.  He knew the risks of their situation as well as Tay.

Tay's net of magic spread wider in search of enemies, and now he found
them.  They came swiftly from the north, a Gnome patrol on horseback,
still some distance away, but racing across the flats.  He could not
see them yet, but there was no mistaking their intent.  He shouted a
quick warning to jerle, and the members of the little company began to
run.
Ahead, the fields abutted a line of low hills.  The draw must lie
beyond, Tay thought.  And the horses as well, he prayed, for they were
too far now from the outpost to escape any other way.

Then more Gnomes appeared, a new band, this one spilling out of its
hiding place within the outpost, which was now barely visible through
the stalks of corn.  These Gnomes were afoot, but began a determined
charge forward to intercept the Elves, obviously intent on slowing them
until the arrival of their mounted brethren.  Tay gritted his teeth as
he ran.  There was no help to he had from the outpost.
Now there was only Vree Erreden's intuition and the draw.

Jerle Shannara sprinted past him effortlessly, feet flying across the
plowed earth as he tore through the cornrows for the hills.  Others
surged ahead as well, swifter afoot than Tay.  Laboring heavily, his
breath a sharp pain in his chest, the Druid suddenly panicked.  What if
the horses that Vree Erreden had sensed were part of another trap?
What if there were Gnomes sitting astride them, waiting?  Frantically,
he tried to cast his net of magic beyond the hills to discover if there
was cause for his fear, but his strength was failing and he could not
manage the reach.

Shouts, raucous and jarring, rose from the pursuing Gnomes.  Tay
ignored them.  Vree Erreden appeared beside him again, running close,
in better shape than Tay would have imagined.  Tay yelled at him in
warning, but he did not seem to hear.
He passed Tay by and went on.  Tay now trailed everyone.  It was the
price you paid for living a sedentary life, he thought ironically.

Then Jerle Shannara broke from the cornfield and began to race up the
line of hills.  As he did so, a shrill whinny and a pounding of hooves
rose from behind the crest.  Dust lifted in a cloud in the clear
afternoon air.  Jerle slowed, unsure of what he faced, reached quickly
for his sword, and drew it free.  His Elven Hunters raced to protect
him.  Metal blades glittered in the sun, the light dancing from their
polished surfaces in sudden explosions of brightness.

In the next instant a line of horses surged into view, charging out of
the sun's glare in a burst of sound and color.  There were a dozen,
maybe more, all roped together, galloping out of the late-afternoon
swelter to take shape like a mirage brought to life.

A single rider led them, bent low over the lead mount.

Tay Trefenwyd slowed to a ragged halt at the edge of the cornfield, his
heart beating wildly, his pulse pounding in his head.

The rider was Preia Starle.

She swept by Jerle Shannara without slowing, releasing several of the
mounts as she did, the ropes tossed to his waiting hands.  She rode on,
dropping off the horses one by one to the Elven Hunters she passed.
Straight for Tay she came and reined to a wild halt before him.

"Climb on, Tay Trefenwyd, and we'll ride for our lives!  The Gnomes are
all about!"  Blood flecked her face and tunic.  He could see cuts and
bruises on her face.  She wheeled her mount into him so hard she nearly
knocked him down.  "Get on!"  she screamed.

There was no time to think about it.  The others of the little company
were already mounted and racing away.  Tay stepped into the stirrup she
had kicked free and swung up behind her.
"Hold tight to me!"  she cried.

In a whirlwind of dust and grit and a pounding of hooves, they charged
after the others.

IT WAS A TERRIFYING FLIGHT.  The Gnomes afoot had spread out across the
fields before them in an effort to block their escape, some with
slings, some with bows.  North, visible now for the first time, the
Gnomes on horseback appeared.  Together, they outnumbered the Elves
nearly four to one.  They were clearly too many to defeat in a pitched
battle.

Jerle Shannara took the lead and rode straight at the Gnomes afoot.
The reason for his decision was obvious.  The only hope for the Elves
was to outdistance the Gnomes on horseback, and the only way to do that
was to get ahead of them and stay there.  If they swung left, which was
what the Gnomes on foot were trying to make them do, they would be
forced back up into the low hills and slowed, allowing the Gnomes on
horseback to cut them off.  If they swung right, they would be heading
directly at their mounted pursuers.  There was, of course, no point in
turning back.  What was left, then, was to go forward, to break past
the Gnomes afoot and ride west, because everyone knew, Elves and Gnomes
alike, that the Gnome didn't live who could outride an Elf.

Down through the cornrows raced the Elven Hunters, some in one field,
some in another, spread out as far as they could manage so as to thin
the ranks of the enemy archers and slingers, to confuse and divide, to
break free of the trap.  The Gnomes darted here and there, calling out
wildly, trying to track their prey.  The Elves stayed low astride their
mounts, pre senting the smallest targets possible.  Only Jerle defied
the odds, rising in his stirrups, howling like a madman at the Gnomes
be fore him, his sword swinging above his head like a deadly scythe.
From his position far to the left, Tay could just make him out,
charging into the teeth of the Gnome line, the big bay he rode leaping
recklessly through the furrowed rows.  Tay knew what his friend was
doing.  He was trying to draw as many of the Gnomes as possible to him
to give his companions a better chance.

Then Preia hissed at him to stay down, and the burly sorrel she rode
swerved sharply along a shallow draw, breaking out of the field close
against the line of hills.  Tay thought he heard something whip past
his head.  He lowered himself over Preia's slender back, a protective
cloak, hanging tightly to her waist.
He could feel her body move in front of him, leaning this way and that,
her horse responding each time.  He had a glimpse of someone running
toward them, a blur of arms and legs amid the cornstalks.
Something small and hard slammed into his shoulder, and he felt his arm
go numb.  His grip on Preia loosened, and he thought he might fall, but
she reached back for him with one arm, helping him keep his seat.  They
reached the west end of the field, vaulted a drainage ditch to a wide
swath of grassland, and galloped into the open.  Tay risked a glance
over his shoulder.  Gnomes knelt at the edge of the corn and slung
their stones and fired their arrows in obvious rage.  But already the
missiles were falling short of their mark.

Tay looked ahead again.  Elven riders streamed out abreast of them in a
ragged line, racing toward the sunset, past the abandoned outpost
buildings and into the grasslands beyond.
Tay tried to count their numbers, tried to determine if Jerle in
particular was all right, but the landscape was clouded by dust and
cloaked in a damp shimmer of late-afternoon heat, and he quickly gave
up and concentrated all of his efforts on not falling off the horse.

The Elves joined up again not far beyond the outpost and began to pace
their horses against the demands of their flight.
Miraculously, all had escaped, most uninjured.  Jerle Shannara was
barely scratched.  Tay discovered that he had been struck on the
shoulder by a slinger's stone and sustained a deep bruise.
The numbness was already fading, replaced by a dull pain.
Nothing broken, he decided, and pushed the matter aside.  The Gnomes on
horseback chased after them, swinging west across the grasslands when
they realized that their quarry had broken through the trap in the
cornfields.  But they had already ridden their horses a long way to get
this far, and they did not know the country as the Elves did.  Taking
the lead once more, jerle Shannara chose the path most advantageous to
his company.
This was his homeland, and he knew it well.  Where the land dipped
suddenly, he could find the high passage.  Where sink holes or bogs
threatened, he was forewarned to swing wide.
Where rivers flowed swift and broad, he could point to the shallows.
The chase wore on, but the Gnomes fell steadily farther behind, and by
nightfall they were no longer visible against the darkening horizon.

Even so, and after they had slowed their horses to a walk to guard
against injury in the dimness of the clouded night sky, they went on
for a time, unwilling to risk a chance discovery.
Jerle took them north along a creek bed, hiding their passing while
changing their direction.  The darkness cloaked them, a welcome
friend.
The heat of the day seeped away and the air cooled.  A thin rain fell
for a time, then passed on.  They rode in silence, save for the
splashing of the horses in the shallow water and, when they left the
stream, the muffled thud of their hooves in the soft earth.

When he could do so safely, Tay bent close to Preia's ear and
whispered, "What happened to you?"

She glanced back at him, her eyes startlingly bright amid the
crosshatched damage to her face.  "A trap."  Her voice was a low, angry
hiss.  "Kipp had gone on ahead to secure the horses at the first
outpost.  I was scouting against discovery by the nome Hunters we had
determined were in the area.  But they were waiting for us.  I was
lucky.  Kipp wasn't."

"We found Kipp, Jerle and I," he said softly.

She nodded, no response.  He wanted to tell her what he had done and
why, but he could not bring himself to speak the words.

"How did they know?"  he pressed.

He could feel her shrug.  "They didn't.  They guessed.  The outposts
are no secret.  The Gnomes knew we would come searching for the Black
Elfstone.  They simply waited for us.
They are waiting at all of the outposts, I imagine."  She paused.
"If they had known our plans exactly, if they had known how to find us,
they would have gotten me as well as Kipp.  But I found them just
before they found me."

"You had to fight to get away, though.  We found your bow."

She shook her head.  "I was afraid you would.  It could not be
helped."

"We thought

"I dropped it fleeing them," she cut him off before he
could say what they had thought.  "Then I went after Kipp.  That was
where the fighting took place.  At the outpost, just after they seized
him.  But there were too many for me.  I had to leave him."

The words were edged with bitterness.  It had cost her to tell him
this.  "We had to leave him as well," he admitted.

She did not turn.  "Alive?"

He shook his head slowly.

He felt her sigh.  "I could not get back to warn you.  There were too
many Gnomes between us.  I had to go on ahead to try to secure the
horses.  I knew that without horses, we were finished.  I thought,
too, that I could draw some of them off."  Her laugh was small and
hollow.  "Wishful thinking, I'm afraid.  Any way, I was able to steal a
horse from under their noses last night while they slept, ride it south
to an outpost beyond the valley that I knew they would not have
discovered, secure these horses we ride now, herd them back again, and
hide until you appeared."

Tay stared at her, astonished.  "How in the world did you manage all
that in one day?"

She shrugged.  "it wasn't that hard."  There was a long pause, with
only the soft thud of the horses' hooves.  "Not as hard as what you had
to do."  She looked back at him once more, her smile sad and
uncertain.
"You did well, Tay."

He forced himself to smile back.  "You did better."

"I wouldn't want to lose you," she said suddenly, and turned away.

He sat silent behind her, unable to offer a reply.

THEY RODE ON THROUGH the night and made camp just before dawn in a
shallow ravine grown thick with slender-boughed ash and white birch.
They slept only a few hours, rose, ate, and went on.  The rain had
returned, a steady drizzle, and with it a mist that clouded the whole
of the land in roiling gray.  The mist and the rain hid them, and so
they pressed on through that day and the next and deep into the second
day's night, hidden from those who searched for them.  Tay rode point
with Preia Starle, using his magic to scan the heavy gloom, worried not
so much that they might be discovered by Gnome Hunters as that they
might accidentally stumble across them.  They walked their horses most
of the time, anxious to save their strength for when it would be needed
and to guard against missteps in the rain soaked earth.

Tay and Preia did not talk, concentrating on keeping watch, he with his
magic, she with her eyes.  But they pressed close against each other in
the rain, and for Tay, that was enough.  He allowed himself to imagine
they meant more to each other than they did.  It was a pointless
exercise, but it made him feel for a short time as if he had found a
place for himself in the world beyond Paranor.  He thought that if he
tried hard enough, per haps he could find a way to belong again, even
without Preia.
He knew that she could not accompany him, but perhaps she could help
him find a path.  He held her loosely about the waist, shielding her
from the weather with his taller frame, feeling the heat of her body
seep into his.  He wondered at how he had gotten to where he was in
life.  He wondered at the choices he had made and whether, if made over
again, they might be different.

They slept near dawn of the third day, finding shelter this time in a
grove of towering hardwoods set back within a blind draw at the edge of
the Kensrowe.  They had traveled far north of where they had come into
the valley, and were now close to its west end.  Ahead lay the dark
stretch of the Innisbore and the pass through Baen Draw that would take
them to the Breakline.  Tay had found no trace of Gnomes that day.  He
was beginning to believe they had outdistanced their pursuers and would
lose them for good in the tangle of the mountains ahead.

Tay rose early and found Jerle Shannara already awake, standing at the
edge of the camp looking out into the new day.
It was gloomy and dark once more, the weather unchanged.

The big man turned at his approach.  "Tay.  Too short a night, wasn't
it?"

Tay shrugged.  "I slept well enough."

"Not like you're used to sleeping, though.  Not like you did at Paranor
with the Druids, in a bed, in a dry room, with hot food waiting when
you rose."

Tay moved up beside him, avoiding his gaze.  "It doesn't matter.
The Druids are all dead.  Paranor is gone.  That part of my life is
over."

His friend's blue eyes studied him shrewdly.  "Something bothers you.
I know you too well to miss it.  You've been distracted these past few
days.  Is it Retten Kipp?  Is it what you had to do to release him from
his pain?"

"No," Tay answered truthfully.  "It is more complicated than that."

Jerle waited a moment.  "Am I to guess or would you rather I simply
left the matter alone?"

Tay hesitated, not certain he wanted to give any answer at all.
"it has to do with coming back to something after being away for too
long," he replied finally, choosing his words with care.  "I was gone
from the Westland for fifteen years.  Now I am back, but I don't seem
to belong anymore.  I don't know where I should be or how I should act
or what I should do.  If it were not for this search, I would be
completely lost."

"Maybe the search is enough for now," his friend suggested gently.
"Maybe the rest will come with time."

Tay shook his head.  "I don't think so.  I think I am changed and
cannot change back again.  Those years at Paranor shaped me in ways I
did not begin to understand until now.  I feel caught between who I was
and who I am.  I don't feel like I am either one or the other."

"But you have just come home, Tay.  You cannot expect everything to
feel the same at first.  Of course it feels strange."

Tay looked at his friend.  "I think maybe I shall have to go away
again, Jerle, when this is over."

Jerle Shannara pushed back his blond hair from his eyes, the mist's
dampness glistening on his face.  "I would be very sorry to see that
happen."  He paused.  "But I would understand, Tay.  And we will still
be friends forever."

He put his hand on Tay's shoulder and kept it there.  Tay smiled in
response.  "We will always be friends," he agreed.

THEY RODE WEST once more into the damp haze.  The rain quickened and
turned heavier as the day wore on.  They made their way across the last
quarter of the Sarandanon, riders cloaked in the gloom, all but
invisible even to each other.  It was as if the world from which they
had come and into which they were going had melted away.  It was as if
nothing remained but the small bit of earth across which they rode,
materializing ahead, disappearing behind, never there for longer than
the few moments it took to pass by.

They came to Baen Draw, the entrance through the Kens rowe to the
Breakline, at dusk, came upon it as the light was failing completely.
There they found the Gnome Hunters once more, and again the Gnomes were
ahead of them.  A large contingent had settled into the draw, blocking
it against all passage.
It was a different group from those who had attacked them in the east
valley; these Hunters had been settled here for a long time.
Preia Starle scouted ahead and found their camp.  The camp, she
reported, was old and established.  The sentry lines stretched across
the mouth of the draw, and there was no way to get past unseen.
Avoiding the draw would do the job, but would add three days to the
journey, and the Elves could not afford the delay.  They would have to
find a way to go through here.

After some consideration, they settled on a plan that relied mostly on
surprise.  They waited until midnight, then mounted up and rode
directly for the pass.  Hooded and cloaked, shrouded by night and the
weather, they were barely visible to each other, let alone to the Gnome
sentries watching for them.
They rode without hurry, seemingly at ease, giving the impression that
they belonged where they were.  When they were near enough to the mouth
of the pass to be challenged, Tay, who spoke any number of languages
learned from his time at Paranor, called out to the Gnomes in their own
tongue, behaving as if they were expected.  Reinforcements, he advised
casually, and the Elves rode closer.

By the time the Gnomes thought to act on their uncertainty, the Elves
were on top of them, putting heels to their horses, and surging ahead
into the draw.  They rode directly through the camp, scattering fires
and Gnomes in all directions, howling as if they were a hundred instead
of a handful.  The surprise was complete.  The Gnomes rolled out of
their bedding and gave chase, but by then the Elves were safely away.

But then their luck ran out.  As a precaution against just such a
breakdown, the Gnomes had established a second line at the far end of
the draw, and these Hunters heard the warning cries of their comrades
and were waiting as the Elves rode into them.
Spears, arrows, and slingers' stones flew at the Elves as they raced
toward the end of the pass.  There was no time to slow, to rethink
their strategy, to do anything but bend low and hope they would break
free.  Jerle Shannara charged right into the thickest knot of
attackers, fearless and unyielding.  Weapons swung toward him and a hail
of missiles sought to bring him down.  But he was charmed, as always,
and somehow he kept astride his horse and his horse stayed upright.
Together they careered into the Gnomes, and Tay Trefenwyd watched
bodies spin away like pieces of deadwood.  Then Jerle Shannara was
clear.

Tay and Preia escaped as well, the Tracker girl's sturdy pony barreling
past the crush of attackers along the left bank of the draw, then
leaping a trip line that was meant to bring it down.

Shouts of hunters and hunted alike mingled with the screams of
horses.
Riders shot past, disembodied shapes charging back and forth in the
gloom.  In desperation Tay used his magic to throw a screen around the
remaining Elves in an effort to hide them from the Gnomes.

But when they reassembled several miles beyond the draw, six among them
were missing.  Now their number was reduced to eight, and the hundreds
of Gnome Hunters that were scattered throughout the Sarandanon would
converge on the pass and track them into the Breakline.

They would track them until they were found.

CHAPTER 15

BY NIGHTFALL of the following day, the Elves were deep within the
mountains.  They had ridden on through the previous night after
escaping the Gnome Hunters at Baen Draw, working their way up into the
rugged foot hills that fronted the Breakline, pressing on until the
dawn light began to creep out of the east and spill down into the bowl
of the Sarandanon.  They had rested then for a few hours, risen, eaten,
and gone on.  The rains had ceased, but the skies remained clouded and
gray, and mist hung across the hills in a thick blanket.  There was a
dampness in the air that carried the smell of earth and rotting wood.
As they climbed higher, the hills turned barren and rocky, and the
smell dissipated.  Now the air was cool and sharp and clear, and the
mist began to break apart.

Noon came, and they left the hills behind and wound their way up into
the mountains.  Jerle Shannara had already told the company that they
would ride until dark, anxious to put distance between themselves and
their pursuers, determined that before they stopped they would be on
terrain that would not leave a trail that could be easily followed.
No one argued the point.  They rode obediently through the gloom and
silence, watching as the mist cleared and the mountains rose before
them.  The Breakline was a wall of jagged rock, of peaks that soared
skyward until they disappeared into the clouds, of cliffs that fell
away in sheer drops of thousands of feet, of massive outcroppings and
ragged splits formed by pressure in the earth from a time when the
world was still forming.  The mountains lifted to the heavens as if
trying to climb free of the world, an outstretching of the arms of
giants frozen by time.  As far north and south as the Elves could see,
the Breakline was visible against the sky, a barrier forbidding
passage, a fortress against encroachment.

The Elves stared at the mountains in silence, and in the face of such
permanence felt an unmistakable sense of their own mortality.

By nightfall, they had passed beyond the lower peaks and could no
longer look back on either the foothills that had brought them up or
the more distant valley of the Sarandanon.
They camped in a grove of spruce cradled in a narrow valley tucked
between barren peaks on which snow glistened in a thin, white mantle.
There was fresh water and grass for the horses, and wood for a fire.

As soon as they were settled and had eaten, Preia Starle de parted to
backtrack their trail to determine if a pursuit had been mounted.
While they waited for her return, Tay conferred with Jerle and Vree
Erreden about the vision that had revealed the location of the Black
Elfstone.  Once more, he recounted its specifics, taking care to
describe everything related to him by Bremen.  Jerle Shannara listened
carefully, his strong face intense, his gaze fixed and unwavering.
Vree Erreden, on the other hand, seemed almost disinterested, his eyes
straying frequently, looking off into the night in search of something
beyond what Tay's words could offer.

"I have never been to this part of the Westland," he remarked when Tay
had finished.  "I know nothing of its geography.  If I am to divine
the hiding place we seek, I must first get closer to it."

"How helpful," Jerle ventured irritably.  He had been watching the
locat's eyes stray as well and was clearly displeased with his
attitude.  "is that the best you can do?"

Vree Erreden shrugged.

jerle was incensed.  "Perhaps you could do better if you had paid
closer attention to what Tay was saying!"

The locat looked at him, squinting myopically.  A slow fire kindled in
his eyes.  "Let me tell you something.  When Tay Trefenwyd came to me
to ask my help, I read his mind.  I can do that sometimes.
I saw Bremen's vision, the one Tay just de scribed, and my memory of it
is quite clear.  That vision is real, my friend.  If it were not, I
would not be here.  It is real, and the place it shows is real, and of
that much I am certain.  Even so, I cannot find it without more than
what I know right now!"

"Jerle, you have traveled this country often," Tay broke in quickly,
anxious to avoid a confrontation.  "Is there nothing of what I have
described that is at all familiar?"

His friend shook his head, a disgruntled look settling over his broad
features.  "Most of my travel has been confined to the passes-to Halys
Cut and Worl Run, and what lies beyond.
This particular formation of mountains-the twin peaks split like two
fingers, in particular-sounds like it could be any of a dozen pairs I
have seen."

"But you're not sure which?"

"What does it sound like to you?"  his friend snapped.

"Which way do you think we should go, then?"  Tay pressed.
He could not understand the other's uncharacteristic display of
temper.

Jerle climbed to his feet.  "How would I know?  Ask 'my friend' the
locat here to give you his best guess!"

"One minute," Vree Erreden said quickly, and rose as well.
He stood facing jerle, small and slight in the other man's shadow, but
unintimidated.  "Would you be willing to try some thing?  I might be
able to help you remember if you've seen this particular formation."

Tay jumped up as well, realizing at once what the locat in tended.
"Can you do for Jerle what you did for me?"  he asked quickly.  "Can
you recover his memory like you did Bremen's vision?"

"What are you talking about?"  Jerle snapped, looking from one to the
other.

"Perhaps," Vree Erreden answered Tay, then looked at Jerle Shannara.
"I told you before.  Sometimes I can read minds.  I did so earlier with
Tay to get a look at Bremen's vision.  I can try it with you to see if
your subconscious retains some memory of this formation we seek."

Jerle flushed.  "Try your magic out on someone else!"

He wheeled away, but Tay grabbed his arm and brought him about.
"But we don't have anyone else, do we, Jerle?  We only have you.  Are
you afraid?"

The big man stared at him with something very close to rage.  Tay held
his ground, mostly because he didn't have any choice.  The night sky
had cleared, and its broad expanse was filled with stars.  Their
brightness was almost blinding.  Standing beneath their light in the
shadow of the mountains, locked in this unexpected confrontation with
his best friend, Tay felt oddly exposed.

Jerle carefully freed his arm from Tay's grip.  "I'm not afraid of
anything, and you know it," he said softly.

Tay nodded.  "I do know it.  Now please let Vree try."


They sat down again, grouped close together in the silence.
Vree Erreden took Jerle Shannara's hands in his own, holding them
loosely, looking boldly into the other's eyes.  Then he closed his
own.
Tay watched the pair uneasily.  Jerle was as tense as a cat prepared to
spring, ready to bolt at the first indication that he was in any kind
of danger.  The locat was by contrast calm and detached, especially
now, gone somewhere deep in side himself to find what he was looking
for.  They remained like that for a few moments, locked together, an
odd alliance, neither revealing anything of what was happening.

Then Vree Erreden released Jerle Shannara's hands and gave a short
nod.
"I have it.  A place to start, anyway.  Your memory is very good.
The twin peaks in the form of a V are called the Pinchers-at least by
you."

"I remember now," the big man said softly.  "Five or six years ago,
when I was scouting for a third passage onto Hoare Flats.
Back in the mountains north of Worl Run, deep in the thickest mass.
There was no chance that a pass would go through there, so we gave it
up.  But I remember the formation.  Yes, I do remember!"

Then his enthusiasm seemed to diminish, and the hard edge of his
irritation returned.  "Enough of this."  He nodded curtly, more to
himself than to them, and rose.  "We have our starting point.  I hope
everyone is happy.  Now perhaps I can get some sleep."

He turned and stalked away.  Tay and Vree Erreden watched him go,
neither of them speaking.  "He's not usually like this," Tay said
finally.

The locat rose.  "He just lost six men who trusted him to an attack he
feels he should have better anticipated."  Tay stared at him, and he
shrugged.  "It's what he's thinking about right now.
He couldn't hide it from me, even though he clearly wanted to."

"But those men dying, that wasn't his fault," Tay declared.  "it wasn't
anyone's fault."

The locat squinted down at him.  'Jerle Shannara doesn't look at it
like that.  If you were in his shoes, would you?"

Then he turned and walked off, leaving Tay to ponder the matter
alone.

THE COMPANY set off again at daybreak, working its way north through
the mountains toward Worl Run.  Preia Starle had returned during the
night to report that there was no sign of a close pursuit.
None of them believed for a moment that this meant they were safe.  It
only meant that they had gained a little extra breathing room.  The
Gnomes were still out there searching for them, but the Elves would be
hard to find in these mountains, where tracks had a tendency to
disappear amid the jumbled boulders and twisting passes.  If they were
lucky, they might avoid discovery just long enough to find what they
were looking for.

It was wishful thinking, Tay supposed, but it was the best they could
hope for.  They rode north for the remainder of the day without seeing
anything of their pursuers, following a line of deep valleys that cut
through the eastern edge of the mountains snakelike to the entrance to
Worl Run.  They camped that night on a flat overlooking the pass and
the valleys leading in from the Sarandanon, close now to where Jerle
remembered seeing the V formation he called the Pinchers.  He was in a
somewhat better mood this day, still withdrawn and taciturn, but no
longer curt, helped perhaps by the fact that they now had a better idea
of where they were going.  He actually apologized to Tay in a rather
offhanded way, commenting lightly at one point on the unfortunate
shortness of his temper.  He said nothing to Vree Erreden, but Tay let
the matter lie.

Preia Starle seemed unfazed by Jerle's shift in attitude and spent her
time talking to him as if everything were fine.  Tay thought she must
know his friend's moods well enough by now to have developed an
appropriate way of responding to each.
He felt a pang of jealousy, for there was no such closeness between
them.  Again he was reminded that he was the outsider, come back into
his old life from another, still trying to make himself fit in.  He did
not know why this bothered him so ex cept that his life at Paranor was
completely gone and his life here seemed to revolve around the
duplicity of his relationship with Preia and Jerle.  He couldn't claim
it was an honest one, because he hid so much of what he felt for Preia
from both of them.  Or thought he did.  Perhaps they knew far more than
they were letting on, and he was playing a game of secrets where the
secrets were all known.

They rode out again at sunrise and reached the Pinchers by midday.
Tay recognized the peaks immediately, a clear match for the rendering
provided by Bremen's vision.  The peaks rose in a sharp V against the
horizon, breaking apart in a deep split fronted by a tangle of small
mountains worn by age and the elements and left bare save for sparse
stands of fir and alder and struggling patches of grasses and
wildflowers.
Beyond, through the gap in the V, rose a wall of mountains so
misty that their features were unrecognizable.


Jerle brought the company to a halt at the low end of a pass leading up
into the peaks and dismounted.  Overhead, hunting birds soared against
the blue, wings spread as they circled in long, graceful sweeps.  The
day was clear and bright; the rain clouds had moved east into the
Sarandanon.  Tay felt the sun on his face, warm and reassuring as he
stared upward into the vast expanse of cliffs and defiles and wondered
at their secrets.

"We'll leave the horses here and walk in," Jerle announced.
He smirked, seeing the look on Tay's face.  "We could only ride them a
short distance farther in any event, Tay.  Then they would be left
exposed to any who follow us.  If we leave them now, we can hide them
in the forest.  We may have to make a run for it before we're
finished."

Preia added her support, and Tay knew they were right, all though it
made him feel uncomfortable to give up the animals that had carried
them past so many close calls.  It had been hard enough to gain
possession of them in the first place.  But those who pursued them
would have to proceed afoot as well if they reached this point, so he
supposed that was as much as could be hoped for.

Jerle chose one of the Elven Hunters to remain behind with the horses,
a grizzled veteran named Obann, instructing him to take the animals and
hide them where they would not be found, then to keep watch for the
company's return.  Obann wanted to rejoin them after concealing the
horses, but Jerle pointed out that it might prove necessary to change
the hiding place if a Gnome search party drew too close and that it
might further be necessary for Obann to bring the horses to his
comrades if they were attacked coming down out of the peaks.  Obann
reluctantly agreed, took the horses in hand, and departed.

Then Jerle led those who remained, their number now re duced to
seven-himself, Tay, Preia, Vree Erreden, and the last three Elven
Hunters-up through the tangle of rock and trees toward the dark cleft
of the Pinchers.

They climbed for the remainder of the day.  As they pro ceeded, Tay
found himself pondering anew the task that lay ahead.  He might argue
that the others of the company shared his responsibility for recovering
the Black Elfstone, but the fact remained that Bremen's charge had been
given expressly to him, not to them.  Moreover, he was a Druid, the
only one among them, the only one who commanded use of magic-of the
sort, at least, that could offer them any real protection-and the one
best equipped to find and secure the Elfstone.
He had not forgotten the part of Bremen's vision that hinted at the
danger that surrounded the Elfstone's hiding place, the suggestion of
dark coils that warded it from those who would steal it away, the 
unmistakable sense of evil.  He was aware that finding the Black Elfstone
was only the first step.  Securing it was the second, and it would not
be done easily or without risk.  If the Elfstone remained undisturbed
after all these centuries, it must be strongly protected.  Vree Erreden
and Preia Starle might assist in finding it.  Jerle Shannara and his
Elven Hunters might aid in retrieving it.  But ultimately the burden
fell to him.

Which was as it should be, he supposed on reflection.  He had trained
for this for the better part of fifteen years, for what constituted
almost the whole of his adult life.  His time at Paranor had been for
this, if it had been for anything.  Nothing else he had accomplished
was in any way comparable to what was required of him now.
Like other Druids, he had spent his time at Paranor immersed in his
studies, in the pursuit of knowledge, and the fact that he had
continued to develop his skills with magic did not alter the fact of
his mostly sedentary existence.  For fifteen years he had lived in an
isolated, cloistered fortress, neither involved with nor engaged by the
world with out.  Now, with his tenure at Paranor ended, his life was to
be forever changed, and it began here, in these mountains, amid the
ruins of another age, with a talisman unseen by anyone since the coming
of Mankind.

So he must not fail, of course-that was of paramount importance.
Failure meant an end to any hope of defeating the Warlock Lord, to any
chance of creating a weapon that would destroy him, and, most likely,
to Tay Trefenwyd's life.  There would be no second chance in a matter
like this, no opportunity to go back and try again.  This effort would
mark the culmination of years of believing in and practicing the Druid
magic.  It would vindicate both what the magic had been created to 
accomplish and the purpose of his life as a Druid.  It was, he imagined,
the defining point of everything.

His concerns bridged outward from there.  The company was weary from
being chased, from running and hiding, from escaping traps, from lack
of sleep and long hours of travel.

They had not eaten well in over a week, bereft of the supplies tey had
hoped to obtain, living off what they hunted and scavenged during their
flight.  They were disheartened by the loss of their comrades and by
the fear, steadily eroding the hard surface of their determination,
that their quest would not succeed.  No one spoke of these things, but
they were there, in their faces, in their eyes, in the way they moved,
apparent to anyone who bothered to look for them.

Time was slipping from them, Tay Trefenwyd thought.  Like water through
cupped hands, it was draining away, and if they were not careful they
would find it suddenly gone.

By nightfall, they were at the mouth of the pass, and they camped
within a thin copse of alder in the lee of the mountains.
It was cool here, farther up on the slopes, but not so cool as to be
chill.  The rock walls seemed to collect and hold the day's heat within
the pass, perhaps because it dipped sharply into a low valley that
spanned the east and west reaches.  Eating sparingly, their water
supply still good, they rolled into their blankets and slept
undisturbed.

At daybreak, they went on.  The sunrise poured down into the valley and
lit their path with hazy streamers that flashed over the eastern
horizon like beacons.  Preia Starle led them, scouting several hundred
yards forward of the main group, coming back now and again to report,
warning of obstacles, advising of smoother paths, keeping them all
safe.  Tay walked with Jerle, but neither of them said much.  They
climbed out of the valley through its west end, leaving the shadow of
the twin peaks, and promptly found their forward passage blocked by a
massive berm that looked to have been formed of vast plates of earth
cracked and gathered by a giant's hands.  Ahead, the wall of the
Breakline rose skyward, its broken peaks gathered together by those
same giant's hands into bundles, all stacked together in haphazard and
incomprehensible fashion, all waiting for someone to sort them out and
put them back together again.

Preia returned to take them left along the berm for almost a mile to a
trail that wound upward into the jagged rocks.  By now, Jerle had
exhausted what little there was of his recovered memory, and there was
nothing for any of them to do but to press on until something in
Bremen's vision recalled itself.  They scrambled onto the berm,
avoiding fissures that dropped straight down into blackness, staying
back from the thin edges of drops and off the steep crests of slopes
where, if you lost your footing, you could slide away forever.  Jerle
had been right, Tay realized, in leaving the horses behind.  They would
have been useless here.

At the crest of the berm, they encountered a slender, twisting trail,
barely discernible from the land about it, that led through a narrow
defile into the larger rocks ahead.  They
followed it cautiously, Preia going on ahead, the Elf girl stepping
lightly through the mix of light and shadows, there one moment and
gone completely the next.

When they came upon her again, she stood at the defile's end, looking
out at the mountains beyond.  She turned on their approach, and her
excitement was palpable.  She pointed, and Tay saw at once the cluster
of mountains directly left of where they stood, spires jutting skyward
at awkward angles, encircled at their base by a broad, high span of
collapsed rock.

Like fingers jammed together, crushed into a single mass.

Tay smiled wearily.  It was the landmark they were looking for, the
ragged gathering of peaks that hid somewhere within their crumpled
depths a fortress lost since the time of faerie-a fortress, Bremen's
vision had promised, that concealed the Black Elfstone.

IT HAD BEEN easier than Tay Trefenwyd had expected, finding first the
twin peaks in the shape of a V and then the clustered mountains that
resembled crushed fingers.  Vree Erreden's recovery of a forgotten
memory and Preia Starle's tracking had brought them to their
destination with a speed and efficiency that defied logic.  Had it not
been for the intrusion of the Gnome Hunters at various points along the
way, they would have arrived almost without effort.

But now, just as quickly, things grew difficult.  They searched all
that day and the next for the entrance to the fortress hidden within
the peaks and found nothing.  The massed rock, boulders and plates
alike, stacked all about the jammed peaks, offered dozens of openings
that led nowhere.  Slowly, painstakingly, the members of the little
company explored each pathway, following it into shadow and cool
darkness, tracing it to a slide or cliff face or drop that ended all
further approach.  The search wore on, extending into the third day,
and then the fourth, and still the Elves found nothing.

Tempers grew short.  They had come a long way and at great cost, and to
now find themselves completely stymied was almost more than they could
stand.  There was a nagging feeling of time running out, of danger
approaching from the east as the Gnomes continued their inevitable
search, of expectations losing momentum and disappointment settling
in.

Jerle Shannara kept them going.  He did not turn dark and moody as Tay
expected or revert to the temper he had displayed toward Vree Erreden
after the loss of the Elven Hunters at Baen Draw, but stayed steady and
determined and calm.  He drove them relentlessly, of course-even Tay.
He insisted they press on with their search.  He made them retrace
their steps.
He forced them to look into each opening in the rocks again and
again.
He refused by strength of will alone to let them lose hope.  He was,
Tay thought on reflection, quite remarkable in his leadership.

Vree Erreden did not provide the help that Tay had hoped for.
There were no visions, no hunches, no displays of instinct, nothing
that would give insight into where the fortress or its entrance might
lie.  The locat did not seem unsettled by this; in deed, he seemed
quite sanguine.  But Tay supposed that he was used to failure, that he
had accepted the fact that his talent did not come on command, but
mostly at times and places of its own choosing.  At least he did not
sit back and wait on its arrival.  Like everyone else in the company,
he went out searching, probing the recesses of the collapsed rock,
poking into this nook and cranny, into that crevice and defile.  He did
not comment on the failure of his talent to aid them, and Jerle
Shannara, to his credit, did not comment on it either.

In the end, it was Preia Starle who made the discovery.  Although the
area they searched was sprawling and mazelike, after four days they
had covered the better part of it.  It became clear to everyone by then
that if the vision had not misled them, then the fortress was concealed
in a way they had not considered.  Preia rose before dawn on the fifth
morning of their search and went down to stare at the jagged crush of
monoliths.
She did it out of frustration and a need to study the landscape anew.
She sat back within the shadows of a cliff face east, watching the
light ease out of the peaks behind her, lifting to chase the darkness,
to change the gray of fading night to the silver and gold beginnings of
the new day.  She watched the sun's bright rays fall across the
towering span of the mountains, seeping down the faces of the cliffs
like a paint stain down wooden walls, the color dipping into each dark
crevice, etching out the shape and form of each rock wall.

And then she saw the birds.  They were large, angular, white fishers,
seabirds miles from any visible water, rising out of a cleft in the
rock face of a peak centered within the cluster, several hundred feet
above where she sat.  The birds appeared in a rush, more than a dozen
of them, lifting away with the coming of the light as if by unspoken
command, soaring skyward and disappearing into the new day east.

What, Preia Starle wondered instantly, were seabirds doing in those
barren peaks?

She went to the others at once with her report.  She de scribed what
she had seen, convinced it was worth investigating, and immediately
Vree Erreden cried, as if shown a revelation, Yes, yes, this was what
they were looking for!  The company was galvanized into action, and
though stiff and sore from the efforts of their search and from
sleeping on the stone of the mountains for five nights straight, and
though hungry for food they did not possess and weary of eating the
food they did, they went out of their camp and up the Mountainside with
a determination that was heartening.

It took them until midmorning to reach the cleft from which the white
birds had flown.  There was no direct route up, and the path they were
forced to follow twisted laboriously back and forth across the cliff
face, its navigation requiring de liberation and care with every
step.
Preia, leading the way as allways, got there first and disappeared
into the opening.  By the time the others had arrived to stand upon a
narrow shelf fronting the cleft, she was back with news of a pass that
cut through the rock.

They went forward in single file.  The walls of the cleft narrowed
where the searchers walked, hemming them in.  The warmth of the sun
turned to dank, cool shadow, and the light faded.  Soon overhangs and
projections formed a ceiling that shut them away entirely.  That there
was any light at all was due solely to the fact that the defile was so
rife with fissures that small amounts of illumination penetrated at
virtually every turn.
Their eyes adjusted to the gloom, and they were able to continue.
The birds, they realized, were able to maneuver easily at the higher
elevations, where the walls broadened.  They found white feathers and
bits of old grass and twigs that might have been carried in for
nests.
The nests, of course, would be farther on, where there was better light
and air.  The company pressed ahead.

After a time, the overhangs dropped so low that they were forced to
proceed at a crouch.  Then the defile branched left and right.
Preia told them to wait and went right.  She returned after a very long
time and took them left.  After a short distance the defile widened
again, and they were able to stand once more.  Ahead, the light grew
brighter.  They were nearing the passageway's end.

Fifty yards farther on, the cleft opened out onto the edge of a vast
lake.  The lake was so unexpected that everyone stopped where they were
and stood staring at it.  It rested within a vast crater, its waters
broad and still, undisturbed by even the faintest ripple.
Overhead, the sky was visible, a cloudless blue dome that channeled
light and warmth to the crater.  Sunlight reflected off the lake, and
the lake mirrored the rock walls surrounding it in perfect detail.
Tay scanned the cliffs and found the nests of the seabirds, set high in
the rocks.  No birds were visible.  Within the shelter of the mountain
walls and across the flat expanse of the lake, nothing moved, the
silence vast and complete and as fragile as glass.

After a short, hushed conference with Jerle, Preia Starle took them
left along the edge of the lakeshore.  The shoreline was a mix of
crushed rock and flat shelves, and the scrape of their boots as they
proceeded echoed eerily in the crater's cavernous depths.  Tay cast
his magic forward of where they walked, hunting for pitfalls, exploring
for hidden dangers.  What he found were lines of earth power so massive
and so old that they tore apart his fragile net and forced him to
rebuild it.  He drew jerle close to him and gave warning.  There was
tremendous magic at work here, magic as old as time and as settled.
It warded the crater and everything that lay within.  He could find no
specific danger from it, but could not trace its source or discover
its use.  He did not think them threatened by it, but they would be
smart to procee wit caution.

They went on until they were nearly halfway around the lake.
Still there was no sign of life, no indication of anything beyond what
they could see before them.  Neither Tay with his Druid magic nor Vree
Erreden with his locat talent could discover what they searched for.
The sun had moved out of the shadow of the cliff rim so that it blazed
directly down on them, a burning orb against the blue.  They could not
look up at it without being blinded, and so kept their gaze lowered as
they walked.

It was then, with the advent of high noon, that Tay Trefenwyd saw the
shadow.

He had moved off the waterline momentarily to higher ground, trying to
see the far shore through the dazzling reflection of the sun on the
lake's still surface.  As he searched for a position that would lessen
the brightness, he saw how the sun had thrown the shadow of a rock
projection far overhead across the length of the lake onto the cliff
face several hundred yards ahead.  The point of the shadow climbed the
rock wall to a nar row fissure and stopped.  Something about the
fissure caught his eye.  He sent his magic to probe the opening.

What he found, carved into the rock above, was writing.

He went forward quickly to catch Preia, and together they turned the
company inland.  Moments later they stood before the fissure, staring
upward in silent contemplation of the writing.  It was ancient and
indecipherable.  It was Elven, but the dialect was unfamiliar.
The carving itself was so weathered it was almost worn away.

Then an inspired Vree Erreden stepped forward, had Tay and Jerle boost
him, and reached up to run his fingers over the writing.  He remained
suspended for a moment, eyes closed, hands moving, stopping, moving
on.
Then he slid down again.
As if in a trance, he bent to the rock on which they stood, and without
seeming to look at what he was doing, his eyes focused somewhere beyond
what they could see, he scratched words onto a smooth surface with a
piece of jagged rock.

Tay bent close to read.

THIS IS THE CHEW MAGNA.  WE LIVE HERE STILL.

TOUCH NOTHING.  TAKE NOTHING.

OUR ROOTS ARE DEEP AND STRONG.

BEWARE.

"What does it mean?"  Jerle whispered.

Tay shook his head.  "That magic wards what lies beyond this opening.
That any disturbance will bring unpleasant consequences.

"it says they are still alive," Vree Erreden observed, his voice a hiss
of disbelief.  "That can't be!  Look at the carving!  The writing is
out of the time of faerie!"

They stood staring at the writing, the fissure, and each other.
Behind them, the Elven Hunters and Preia Starle waited.
No one spoke.  There was a sense of time dropping away, of past and
present joining and transcending the passing of lives and history.
There was a sense of standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing that one
false step would send you hurtling to your death.  Tay's awareness of
the magic's presence was so strong that it seemed he could feel its
touch against his skin.  Old, powerful, iron-willed, and conjured out
of purpose and need, it filled up his senses and threatened to
overwhelm him.

"We did not come this far to turn back," Jerle Shannara observed
quietly, looking over at him.  "Not for any reason."

Tay nodded.  He was determined as well.  He glanced at Vree Erreden, at
Preia Starle, at the Elven Hunters who stood behind her, and finally
once again at Jerle.  He gave his friend a crooked smile.

Then he took a deep breath and stepped forward into the dark mouth of
the fissure.

CHAPTER 16

THE FISSURE WIDENED immediately into a corridor broad enough for the
Elves to stand two abreast.  Steps wound downward into darkness so
complete that not even Tay Trefenwyd's keen vision could penetrate to
what lay be yond.  He moved forward several yards, feeling his way
along the wall, and encountered a metal plate.  When he touched it,
light appeared across its flat surface, pale yellow and cool.  He
stared at the plate in surprise; here was a magic he had never
encountered.  The light revealed another plate, just at the edge of the
darkness farther on.  He walked over to it, placed his hand on it, and
it, too, brightened.  Amazing, he thought.  He could hear the footsteps
of the others coming up behind him.  He wondered what they must be
thinking.  But no one spoke, and he did not look back at them.
Instead, he continued on, touching the metal plates, lighting their way
through the darkened corridor.

Their descent took a long time.  Tay could not measure it, the whole of
his concentration given over to the casting of his Druid magic before
him to ferret out hidden traps.  The metal plates that gave off light
revealed a sophistication he had not expected.  Faerie magic was not
well known, for most of the lore had been lost with time's passage, but
Tay had always assumed that magic to be grounded more in nature and
less in technology.  Yet the plates suggested he was mistaken, and
that made him uneasy.  Take nothing for granted here, he warned
himself.
Riding the air currents, skimming through the seams in the rock,
bouncing across the dust motes that were stirred with their passing,
his Druid magic hunted.  With swift precision, he sorted and defined
the secrets of the world through which they passed.  He found no trace
of human life, though the warning above the door had suggested it
should be otherwise.  He found no trace of another's passing, not in
years, perhaps centuries.
But, in spite of this, he experienced a sharp feeling of being watched,
of his measure being taken, of something waiting farther on, patient
and inexorable in its purpose.

The stairway ended at a massive iron door.  No locks bound it.  No
magic warded it.  Above its rusted, pitted frame, the words CHEW MAGNA
were carved in stone-but those words only and nothing else of what had
been written on the wall above the fissure into which they had
entered.
The others of the little company crowded close.  On hands and knees,
Preia Starle examined the ground before the doors, then rose and shook
her head.  No one had passed this way in a very long time.

Tay probed the doors and the spaces between.  Nothing revealed
itself.
He stepped forward then, seized the great iron handles, and pulled
down.

The handles gave easily, the latches released, and the doors swung
inward as if perfectly balanced.  Misty light poured through the
opening, streaming down in a surreal shimmer, as if filtered through a
pane of rain-streaked glass.

A massive fortress stood before them, its stone blocks so ancient the
edges were worn smooth and its surface so cracked it seemed as if
spiderwebs had covered it over.  It was a wondrous construction, a
balancing of towers atop battlements, an inter linking of parapets that
cantilevered forward and back at every turn, and a spiraling of
catwalks that suggested the intricacy of tapestry threads woven on a
loom.  The castle rose high and then higher, until its farthest reaches
were barely discernible.
Mountains ringed the castle, opening to the sky through a ceiling of
clouds and mist.  Trees and scrub grew thick along the rock walls at
the higher elevations, branches and vines drooping inward toward the
castle spires, letting daylight slip through in a ragged seam.  It was
from here that the light took its odd cast, spilling down through the
filter of the leafy canopy and swirling haze to coat the fortress stone
in its watery illumination.

Tay moved through the doors and into a vast courtyard that spread to
either side and toward the central structure of the keep.  He
discovered now that he had passed through the castle's outer walls,
which abutted the peaks themselves.  He stared back at the walls in
astonishment, realizing that with the passing of time, the mountains
had shifted, closing and tightening about the ancient fortress until
its walls had begun to crack and crumble.  Inch by inch, the mountains
were reclaiming the ground on which the fortress had been built.  One
day they would close about it for good.

The company advanced farther into the courtyard, glancing about
guardedly.  The air was damp and fetid, smelling of swamp and decay,
strange for where they were, so deep in the mountains.  But they had
descended a long way since coming through the fissure in the crater
wall, and Tay felt they might again be nearing sea level, far enough
down to encounter marshy conditions.  He glanced up again at the trees
and scrub and vines growing high above them on the cliffs, and realized
that the mist was almost a rain.  He could feel the damp on his face.
He looked at the fortress doors and windows, black holes in the gray
haze.  Iron hinges and locks hung empty and useless; the wood had
rotted away at every turn.  Moisture worked at the stone and mortar as
well, wearing it down, eroding it.  Tay walked to the wall of the
nearest tower and rubbed his hand across the stone.  The surface
crumbled like sand under his fingers.  This ancient keep, this Chew
Magna, had the unpleasant feel of a place that would collapse under a
strong wind.

Then Tay saw Vree Erreden.  The locat was on his knees at the center of
the court, head lowered between his shoulders, arms braced to keep
himself from collapsing completely, his breath a harsh gasp in the near
silence.  Tay hurried over and knelt beside him.  Preia appeared as
well, then Jerle, their faces anxious and intent.


"What is it?"  Tay asked the stricken man.  "Are you sick?"

The locat nodded quickly, pulling his arms into his body, sagging
against Tay for support, shivering as if struck with a terrible
chill.

"This place!"  he hissed.  "Shades, can you feel it?"

Tay held him close.  "No.  Nothing.  What do you feel?"

"Such power!  Evil, harsh as grit against my skin!  I felt nothing and
then, suddenly, it was everywhere!  It overwhelmed me!
For a moment, I could not breathe!"

"What is its source?"  Jerle asked quickly, edging close.

The locat shook his head.  "I cannot tell!  This is nothing I am
familiar with, nothing I have experienced before!  It wasn't a vision,
or a hunch, or ... anything.  It was blackness, a wave of blackness,
then a feeling of .  . ."

He took a deep, steadying breath, closed his eyes, and went still.
Tay glanced down hurriedly, thinking he had lost consciousness.  But
Preia touched him and shook her head Vree Erreden was only resting.
Tay let him be.  He remained kneeling, holding the locat in his arms,
and the entire company waited with him.

Finally the stricken man opened his eyes once more, ex haled a long,
deep breath, eased away from Tay, and climbed to his feet.  He was
steady as he faced them, but his hands still shook.  "The Black
Elfstone," he whispered, "is here.  That was what I sensed, the source
of the evil."  He blinked, then looked sharply at Tay.  "Its power is
immense!"

"Can you tell where it is?"  Tay asked, trying to stay calm.

The locat shook his head, arms folding against his chest 
defensively.
"Ahead, somewhere.  In the keep."

So they went on, moving cautiously into the fortress proper.
Tay led once more, his magic sent before him in a sweeping net to guard
against all dangers.  They went through a doorway at the center of the
keep and began to wind their way along the corridors beyond.
Tay felt Jerle brush against his elbow, then Preia, a step behind.
They were protecting him, he realized.  He shook his head.  He was
disturbed by his lack of awareness of the Black Elfstone's proximity
when it had been so clear to Vree Erreden.  His Druid magic had failed
him.  Why was that?  Was his magic rendered useless in this keep?  No,
he answered him self, because he had sensed a presence earlier on
entering, eyes keeping watch.  Whose, then?  The Elfstone could not
possess intelligence, but there was clearly something that lived here.
What could it be?

They pressed on through the fortress, working their way deeper into its
catacombs.  Shadows lay over everything in dark layers of musty
velvet.
Dust rose from beneath their feet to cloud the air.  The furnishings
that had once graced this castle had crumbled.  Nothing remained but
scraps of metal and shreds of cloth.  Nails poked from the walls, where
once tapestries and paintings had hung.  There had been artistry and
craftsmanship at work in another time, but nothing they had produced
remained.  Rooms opened off hallways and passages, some vast and regal,
some small and intimate, all empty of life.  Benches lined a corridor
they traversed, but when Tay put his hand on one it crumbled into
dust.
Glass lay shattered in niches.  Weapons lay broken and rendered
useless, stacks of rotted wood and rusted metal.
Ceilings lifted into clouds of gloom, and windows gaped like the ruined
sockets of blinded eyes.  Everything was still, the silence of a
crypt.

At a juncture of several broad corridors, Vree Erreden brought them to
a sudden stop.  He was holding his head with one hand, pain etched on
his thin features, his slender body taut.  "Go left!"  he gasped,
pointing raggedly.

They turned as he directed.  Preia Starle dropped back to take his arm,
lending her support.  He was breathing rapidly again, his eyes blinking
as if to rid themselves of an irritation.  Tay glanced back at him,
then ahead once more.  He still sensed nothing.  He felt oddly
defenseless, as if his magic had abandoned him and he could no longer
rely on it.  He gritted his teeth against his perceived inadequacy and
forced himself to go on.  His magic would never desert him, he
admonished him self.  Never.

They passed down a broad stairway that wound about the outer wall of a
vast rotunda.  Their footsteps echoed faintly in the muffling silence,
and now Tay sensed the eyes again, more strongly this time, more
evident.  What lived within this keep was close.

They reached the bottom of the stairway and stopped.  A courtyard
opened before them, broad and bright with misty sunlight.  Shadows fell
away, tattered and frayed.  The musty staleness of the dark corridors
faded.  The dust and grit that hung upon the captured air
disappeared.

At the center of the courtyard was a garden.

The garden was rectangular in shape, encircled by a broad walkway
constructed of painted tiles and stone, the colors still resonant.
Flowers grew along the outer border, a variety Tay could not identify,
multicolored, profuse.  The central portion of the garden was given
over to a grove of slender trees and vines so closely intertwined as to
be virtually inseparable, their leaves bright green and shiny, their
limbs and trunks a curious mottled pattern.

A garden!  Tay Trefenwyd marveled.  Excitement washed through him.
A garden, deep within the bowels of this ancient fortress, where
nothing should grow, where no sunlight should reach!  He could hardly
believe it!

Almost without thinking, he came down off the stairs and hurried toward
the garden's edge.  He was within several yards when Jerle Shannara
caught hold of his arm and yanked him firmly back.

"Not so quick, Tay," his friend warned.

Startled, Tay looked at the other, then saw Vree Erreden down on one
knee again, shaking his head slowly from side to side as Preia held
him.  He realized suddenly how strong the im pulse had been to go
forward, how anxious he had been to ex plore.  He realized as well that
he had abandoned his defenses entirely.  So eager had he been that he
had released the protective shield of his Druid magic without a
thought.

Saying nothing, he walked quickly to where Vree Erreden knelt.
The locat grasped him immediately, sensing rather than seeing him,
drawing him close.  "The Black Elfstone," he hissed through teeth
clenched against some inner pain, "lies there!"

His hand, shaking, pointed at the garden.

Preia touched Tay's arm gently so that he would look at her.  Her
ginger eyes were wary, guarded.  "He went down the moment you left the
stairs.  Something attacked him.  What's happening?"

Tay shook his head.  "I'm not sure."

He reached for Vree Erreden's hands and took them in his own.  The
locat flinched, then went still again.  Tay summoned his magic, called
up a healing balm, and sent it flowing into the other's slender arms
and body.  Vree Erreden sighed and went still, his head drooping.


Preia looked at Tay, one eyebrow cocked.  'Just hold him for a moment,"
he said to her.

Then he rose again to stand with Jerle.  "What do you suppose this
garden is doing here?"  he asked softly.

His friend shook his head.  "Nothing good, if that's where the Black
Elfstone lies.  I wouldn't walk in there if I were you"

 Tay nodded. "But I cannot reach the Elfstone if I don't."

"I wonder if you can reach it even if you do.  You said your self that
the vision warned that something wards the Stone.  Per haps it is this
garden.  Or something that lives within it."

They stood close, staring into the tangle of vines and limbs, trying to
detect something of the danger they sensed waiting.
A soft wind seemed to ruffle the shiny leaves momentarily, but nothing
else moved.  Tay stretched out his arm and sent a feeler of Druid magic
to probe the garden's interior.  The feeler snaked its way inward,
searching carefully.  But there was only more of what he could already
see-the slender trees and vines with their shiny leaves and the earth
from which they grew.

Yet he could feel life there, life beyond what the plants suggested, a
presence strong and ancient and deadly.

"Walk with me," he said to Jerle finally.

They left the company and began a slow, cautious exploration of the
garden's perimeter.  The walkway was broad and unobstructed, so they
were able to keep a wary eye in all directions as they proceeded.
The garden ran for several hundred feet down one side, another hundred
across, then several hundred back again.  On each side, it looked the
same-flowers along its border, trees and vines within.  There were no
paths.
There were no indications of other life.  There was no sign of the
Black Elfstone.

When they were back where they started, Tay walked over to Vree Erreden
once more.  The locat was conscious again and crouched next to Preia.
His eyes were open, and he was staring fixedly at the garden, although
it seemed to Tay that he was looking at something else entirely.

Tay knelt beside him.  "Are you certain the Black Elfstone is here?" 
he asked quietly.

The locat nodded.  "Somewhere in that maze," he whispered, his voice
rough and thick with fear.  His eyes shifted suddenly to Tay.
"But you must not go in there!  You will not come out again, Tay
Trefenwyd!  What wards the Elfstone, what lives in this place, waits
for you!"

One hand came up to knot before his pain-etched face.  "Listen to me!
You cannot stand against it!"

Tay rose and walked over to Jerle Shannara.  "I want you to do
something," he said.  He was careful to make certain Vree Erreden could
not hear.  "Call the other Hunters over.  Leave Preia with the locat." 

jerle studied him a moment, then beckoned the remaining Elven Hunters
to his side.  When they were gathered about, he looked questioningly at
Tay.

"I want you to take hold of my arms," he told them.  "Two on each
side.
Take hold, and no matter what I say or do, you are to keep hold.
Do not release me.  Do not react to anything I say.  Do not even look
at me if you can help it.  Can you do that?"

The Elven Hunters looked at one another and nodded.
"What are you going to do?"  Jerle demanded.

"Use Druid magic to find what lies within the garden," Tay answered.
"I will be all right if you remember to do as I said."

"I'll remember," his friend answered.  "We all will.  But I don't like
this much."

Tay smiled, his heart pounding.  "I don't like it much either."

He closed his eyes then and washed the others of the company from his
consciousness.  Gathering his magic to him, he went down inside
himself.  There, deep within the core of his being, he formed of the
magic an image of himself, a thing of spirit and not substance, and
dispatched it forth in a long, slow exhale of his breath.

He emerged from his corporeal body an invisible wraith, a bit of ether
against the pale gray light of the ancient fortress.
He slipped past Jerle Shannara and the Elven Hunters, past Preia Starle
and Vree Erreden, toward the thick, green tangle of the silent
garden.
As he went, he came to sense more clearly the magic buried there.  Old,
wily, and established, it rooted deeper than the trees and vines that
concealed it.  It was the entity to which the lines of power that
warded this fortress were attached.  They grew from it as gossamer
threads, entwining stone and iron, reaching from outer walls to tallest
spires, from deepest cellars to highest battlements.  They stretched
across the chasm of the mountains where they breached against the sky,
a vast concentration of thought and feeling and strength.
He came up against their webbing and eased his way carefully past,
sliding by without touching to continue on.

Then he was within the garden, wending his way through its maze, into
the lush mustiness of earth and the sweet tang of leaves and vines.
Everywhere, the garden was the same, deep and secret and enveloping.
He sailed weightless and substanceless on a current of air, avoiding
the lines of power that stretched everywhere, doing nothing to trigger
a disturbance that might alert whatever watched to his presence.

He had penetrated so far into the garden that he thought he must be
close to passing all the way through when he encountered an unexpected
tightening of the lines of power at a place where the light seemed to
diminish and the shadows to encroach once more.  Here, the slender
trees and vines disappeared.  Here, darkness held sway.  Bare earth lay
revealed in a space where nothing grew and the diffuse light was
absorbed as if water soaked into a sponge.  Something unseen throbbed
with the vibrancy and consistency of a beating heart, layered in 
protective magic, wrapped in blanketing power.

Tay Trefenwyd eased close, peering into the suffocating shadows,
stealing past the warding lines.  Within his guise, he stilled himself,
and even the beating of his pulse, the whisper of his breath, and the
shudder of his heart slowed to silence.  He withdrew all but the
smallest part of himself and became one with the darkness.

Then he saw it.  Resting on an ancient metal frame into which runes had
been scrolled and strange creatures wrought was a gem as black as ink,
so impenetrable that no light reflected from its smooth surface.
Opaque, depthless, radiating power that was beyond anything Tay
Trefenwyd had imagined possible, the Black Elfstone waited.

For him.

Oh, Shades!  For him!

A moth drawn to a flame, he reached for it-impulsive, un thinking,
unable to resist.  He reached for it with the desperation and need of a
drowning man, and this time Jerle Shannara was not there to stop him.
An image only, a wraith without substance, he gave no thought to what
he did.  In that moment, reason was lost to him and his need was all
that mattered.

That he was a ghost and nothing more was what saved him.

The moment his hand closed about the Elfstone, he was known.
He could feel the lines of power shimmer in response to his presence,
feel them vibrate and whine in warning.  He tried to draw back, to flee
what was coming, but there was no escape.
The watcher he had not been able to identify, the thing that lived
within the ruins of the Chew Magna, took sudden, hideous shape.  The
earth trembled in response to its waking, and the vines that grew
throughout the garden, limp and flaccid a moment earlier, thrust
upward-become the coils of death of which Galaphile's shade had
warned.
They whipped through the spaces between the slender trees like snakes,
searching.
Magic drove them, fed them, gave life to them, and Tay Trefenwyd, even
in his spirit form, knew them for what they were instantly.  They
fastened on his arms and legs, about his body and head, dozens strong,
come from everywhere.  They fastened, and then they began to squeeze.
Tay could feel the pressure.  He should not have been able to do so-he
had made himself a spirit.  But the garden's magic had the power to
ferret him out even in this elusive form.  Magic to hold magic-magic to
destroy even a Druid.  Tay felt himself being ripped apart.  He heard
himself scream in response-the pain a reality within his psyche.
Gathering himself within the core of his shattered form, bringing the
small part that mattered into a particle no larger than a dust mote, he
hurtled out through a gap in the writhing mass of vines and into the
light.

Then abruptly he was back inside his body, twisting and screaming,
arching as if electrified, struggling so hard to break free that it was
all Jerle Shannara and the Elven Hunters could do to hold him.  He
gasped, shuddered, and collapsed finally into their arms, spent.  He
was drenched in sweat, and his clothes were ripped from his efforts to
rid himself of their hands.  Before him, the garden undulated with
life, an ocean of deadly intent, a quagmire that nothing caught within
could hope to escape.

Yet he had done so.

His eyes closed and tightened into slits.  "Shades!"  he whispered,
fighting down his memory of the tenacious vines as they crawled over
him, tightening.

"Tay!"  Jerle's voice was harsh, desperate.  The big man held him, arms
wrapped about his body.  He trembled violently.  "Tay, do you hear
me?"

Tay Trefenwyd gripped his friend in response and his eyes snapped
open.
He was all right now, he told himself.  He was safe, unharmed.
He took a long, slow, steadying breath.
He was returned to the living, and of the horror of the Black
Elfstone's dark magic he had discovered all that he needed to know.

HE TOLD THE OTHERS of the company what he had learned.  He gathered
them close, all of them, for there was no reason they should not all
know, and told them what had occurred.  He did not lie, but he kept
from them the darkest of the truths he had uncovered.  He tried not to
show how frightened he was, though his fear worked through him anew as
he recounted the experience, a river vast and wide and deep.
He kept his voice calm and steady and his story brief.  When he was
finished, he told them he needed to think awhile about what they should
do next.

They left him alone save for Vree Erreden.  The locat came away with
him unbidden, and as soon as they were out of hearing of the others, he
took Tay's arm.

"You said nothing of the watcher.  You did not name it, yet you must
know its identity."  The thin, strong fingers tightened.
"I sensed it waiting for you-you, in particular, as if you were special
to it.  Tell me what it is, Tay Trefenwyd."

They moved onto the spiral staircase and sat together in the echoing
silence of the fortress depths.  Before them, the garden had gone still
again, a garden once more, and nothing else.  It was as if nothing had
happened.

Tay glanced at the locat and then looked away.  "If I tell you, it must
remain between us.  No one else is to know."

Vree Erreden nodded.  "Is it the Warlock Lord?"  he whispered.

Tay shook his head.  "What rules here is older than that.
What lives in the garden is what once lived in this castle.  It is a
compendium of lives, a joining of faerie creatures, Elves mostly, that
centuries ago were just as you and I. But they coveted the power of
the Black Elfstone.  They coveted it, and their need was so desperate
that they could not resist, They used the Stone, all of them, together
perhaps, or separately, and they were destroyed.  I can't tell how, but
their story was made known to me.  I could feel their horror and their
madness.  They are transformed, become the substance of this garden, a
collective conscience, a collaborative power, their magic sustaining
what remains of the fortress, gathered here, where all that is left of
them has taken root in the form of these trees and vines."

"They were human?"  the locat asked in horror.

"Once.  No more.  They lost what was human when they summoned the power
of the Elfstone."  Tay fixed him with a haunted gaze.  "Bremen warned
me of the danger.  He told me that whatever happened, whatever the
cause, I must not use the Black Elfstone.  He must know what it would
cost me if I did."

Vree Erreden's thin face lowered into shadow.  His eyes blinked
rapidly.  "I could feel what lives here waiting for you-I told you
that.  But why does it wait?  Does it seek its own kind, creatures of
power, beings who have use of the magic in some form?  Or does it ward
against them?  What drives it?  It passed me by, I think, because my
magic lacks definition and strength.
My magic is instinct and vision, and it has no use for that.  But,
Shades, I could feel the darkness of it!"

He turned back to Tay.  "You have a Druid's power, and such power is
infinitely more compelling.  There can be no question that it either
fears or covets your magic."

Tay's mind raced.  "It protects the Black Elfstone because the Elfstone
is the source of its power.  And of its life.  I threatened it by
coming into the garden and disturbing the lines of power it has
established.  Does it know me as a Druid, though?  I wonder."

"It knows you as an enemy, certainly.  It must, since it tried to
destroy you.  It knows you are not subverted."  The locat ex haled, a
long, ragged breath.  "It will be waiting for you to try again, Tay.
If you go back into that garden, you will be devoured."

They stared at each other wordlessly.  It knows you as an enemy, Tay
thought, repeating Vree Erreden's words.  It knows you are not
subverted.  He was reminded of something suddenly, but he could not
think what.  He wrestled with it for a moment before remembering.  It
was Bremen, changing his appearance, his form, his very thinking, so
that he could penetrate the stronghold of the Warlock Lord.  It was
Bremen, altering himself so that he became one with the monsters that
dwelled within.

Could he do that here?

His breath caught in his throat, and he turned away, unwilling to let
Vree Erreden see what was in his eyes.  He could not believe what he
was thinking.  He could not imagine he was giving the idea even the
smallest consideration.  It was insane!

But what other choice was left to him?  There was no other way-he knew
that already.  He looked at the others sitting grouped at the edge of
the deadly garden.  They had come a long way to find the Black
Elfstone, and none of them would turn back now.  It was pointless to
think otherwise.  The stakes were too great, the price too high, for
them to fail.  They would die first.

Oh, but there must be another way!  His mind tightened with the
pressure of iron bands drawn taut.  How could he make himself do it?
What chance did he have?  This time, should he fail, there would be no
escape.  He would be consumed ...

Devoured.

He rose, needing to stand if he was to face this decision, needing to
move away from his fear.  He stepped down from the stairway, leaving
the perplexed locat staring after him.  He walked away from the others
as well-from Jerle and Preia and the Hunters-to collect himself and
take measure of his strength.  A tall, gangly figure, he felt as worn
and bent as the stone about him, and no less vulnerable to time.  He
knew him self for what he was-a Druid first, last, and always, but one
of only a handful, one of an order that was in all probability moving
toward extinction.  The world was changing, and some things must
pass.
It might be so with them, with Bremen, Risca, and himself.

But they should not pass in quiet complacency, he thought angrily.
They should not pass as ghosts, fading into mist with the coming of the
new day, inconsequential things and only half-believed.

We should not be less than what we are.

Empowered by his words and armored in the strength of his convictions,
he summoned up the last of his courage and called to Jerle Shannara.

CHAPTER 17

THERE IS A WAY to reach the Black Elfstone," Tay said quietly to Jerle
Shannara.  "But only I can do it, and I have to do it alone."
They stood apart from the others, Tay's crooked smile belying the knot
that tightened his throat.  The day was beginning to fade toward
nightfall, the sun already gone west beyond the rim of the mountains
surrounding them.  He did not want to be caught down here in the
dark.

Jerle studied him wordlessly for a moment.  "You require some use of
the Druid magic, I gather?"

"I do."


The shrewd eyes fixed him.  "A disguise?"

"Yes, Of a sort."  Tay paused.  "I would rather not explain the
specifics.  I would rather you simply trusted me.  I need to be left
alone, no matter what happens.  No one must come near me un til I say
it is permitted.  This will be hard, because you will want to do
otherwise."

"This will be dangerous."  Jerle made it a statement of fact.

Tay nodded.  "I must go into the garden.  If I do not come out, you are
to take the company and return to Arborlon.  Wait, hear me out," he
said, cutting short the other's protest.  "If I am killed, there is no
one else who stands a chance.  You have a brave heart, Jerle, but no
magic, and you cannot overcome what lives in the garden without
magic.
You must go back to Arborlon and wait for Bremen.  He will be able to
help.  We have found the Black Elfstone, so it only remains to discover
a way to retrieve it.  If I cannot, he must."

Jerle Shannara put his hands on his hips and looked away in disgust.
"I am not much good at standing around while someone else risks his
life-especially when it is you."

Tay folded his arms across his chest and looked down at his feet.
"I understand.  I would feel the same way if our positions were
reversed.  Waiting is hard.  But I have to ask it of you.  I will need
your strength later, when mine is gone.  One thing more.
When I come out again, when you see me, even if you are not sure it is
me, speak my name."

"Tay Trefenwyd," the other repeated dutifully.

They stared at each other, thinking back on the years they had been
friends, measuring what was being asked against their private
expectations of themselves.

"All right," Jerle said finally.  "Go.  Do what you must."

At Tay's request, he took the other members of the company to stand
with him at the bottom of the spiral staircase, well back from the edge
of the garden.  Tay glanced at them only once, locking eyes momentarily
with Preia Starle before turning away.  He had distanced himself from
his feelings for her since coming into the Chew Magna, knowing he could
not afford the distraction.  He did so anew now, focusing on his life
as a Druid, on the years given over to the study of his special
talents, on the disciplines and skills he had mastered.

He pictured Bremen: the lean, creased face; the strange, commanding
eyes; the sense of purpose stamped everywhere.  He repeated the charge
the old man had given him, the charge he had accepted in coming
here.

He faced the garden then, the deadly tangle of vines, the shadowed
recesses, the invisible life force that waited some where deep
within.
He stilled himself, slowed his heartbeat and his pulse, quieted his
thoughts, and enveloped himself in a blanket of calm.  He reached out
for the elements that fueled his magic-for air, water, fire, and earth,
for the tools of his trade.

He summoned what he could find of them, searched them out and retrieved
them, and surrounded himself in their heady mix.
He breathed them in, infused himself with their feel, and slowly began
to change.

He worked carefully to achieve the result he desired, taking small
steps as he invoked his Druid magic, altering himself without haste.
He stripped away his own identity layer by layer, removing his
features, changing his look.  He scrubbed himself clean so that nothing
of his physical identity remained.  Then he went down inside his body
to change what was there as well.  He locked away feelings and beliefs,
emotions and thoughts, codes of conduct and values of life-everything
that marked him for who and what he was.  He gathered them up and hid
them where they could not be found, where nothing would release them
save Jerle Shannara speaking his name.

Then he began to rebuild himself.  He drew from the life of the garden
to accomplish this.  He drew from the creatures that had once been
human but were no longer so.  He found the essence of what they were,
the core of what the Black Elfstone's magic had made of them, and he
let it blossom within himself.
He became as they were, as dark and lost, as ravaged and barren, a
replica of their madness and their evil.  He became like them, save for
the fact that he retained the basic substance of his form so that he
might walk among them.  He was one step removed from their fate, so
close there was no difference beyond the taking of that step.

The Elves watching could see him change.  They could see his tall,
slightly stooped form shrink and curl.  They could see his gangly arms
and legs turn gnarled and bent.  They could feel the foulness creep
over him and into him until there was nothing else.  They could smell
the decay.  They could taste the ruin.  He was anathema to anything
good, to anything human, and even Jerle Shannara, steeled as he was to
face what his friend was about to do, shrank from him.

Madness buzzed within Tay Trefenwyd's head, full-blown and obsessive.
He reeked of the crippling effects of the garden's dark magic, of the
ruin brought to those who infused it with their lives, who had made it
their home.  For an instant Tay thought he understood the magic, how it
had derived from mis guided use of the Black Elfstone, but the
proximity of his under standing threatened the last vestige of his
sanity, the small kernel of what held him to his purpose, and he was
forced to back away.

He went into the garden now, a fellow to the creatures it had
absorbed.
He went boldly, for no other approach made sense.  He went as one of
them, still tending to the duties they had abandoned on changing form,
still inhabiting the world they had left behind.  He slid between the
slender trees and brushed up against the flaccid vines, a serpent come
to a serpent's refuge.  He was as poisonous as they, and nothing of
what they had become was any worse than what reflected in him.  He
slipped into the shadowed depths, seeking their comfort, easing
sinuously into their embrace, soulless.

The garden and the creatures that fed it reacted as he had hoped.
They welcomed him.  They embraced him as one of their own, recognizable
and familiar.  He immersed himself in their foulness, in their decay,
letting the tendrils of their collective thought worm into his mind so
that they might see his in tent.  He was their keeper, they saw.  He
was a tender of the garden.  He was come to bring them something, a
change that would inspire new growth, that would satisfy some unspoken
need.  He was come to give them release.

He went deep into the garden, so deep that he lost himself completely
in what he had become.  All else faded and would not be remembered if
he did not come out.  He twisted down into a knot that squeezed away
his life in small, scarlet drops.
He was all madness and itch, a ravaged specter without a trace of his
former identity.  He was lost to everything he had been.

But he was driven, too, by the unalterable and compelling sense of
purpose to which he had given himself over.  He had come for the Black
Elfstone, and he was determined, even in his madness, that he would
have it.  With single-mindedness and in exorable need, he approached
it.  The lines of power brushed against him and slid away.  The vines
shuddered, but with appreciation rather than rage.  The life of the
garden let him bend to the Elfstone, let him take it in his hands, let
him lift it to his breast.  He had come to care for the Stone, they
saw.  He had come to draw new magic from it, magic they would share,
that would feed and satisfy anew their hunger.

For this was the guise that Tay Trefenwyd had assumed.  The creatures
that composed the garden could no longer invoke the power that had
subverted them, could no longer feed upon it, but were locked in what
it had made of them, trapped within the vines and trees and flowers of
this rectangular patch of earth, deep within the fortress that had once
been their home, rooted in place forever.  They guarded the stone as
they would a lock to their shackles, waiting for the time when a key
would be brought to release them.  Tay was the bearer of that key.  Tay
was the chance and the hope and the promise their madness allowed.

So he went, step by step, back through the garden, bearing in his
hands-or what passed for hands-the Black Elfstone.
Lines of power trailed after him, the webbing of the garden's power,
played out to give him room, its tendrils releasing so that he might
proceed.  They snapped softly with his passing, and he could feel the
garden shudder with the pain.  But the pain fed back into him, the
feeling delicious.  Pain gave promise of agony, agony of
transformation.  Dark intent rode his foot steps, riddled his heart,
and spurred him on through the shadows.  A new power worked on his
ravaged form, a tentative probe, like the touching of silken fingers
against skin.  It was the dormant magic of the Black Elfstone stirring
to life, anxious for a new release, waking to give promise of what
might be.  It caressed Tay Trefenwyd as a lover.  It stroked his
ruined form and filled him with joy.  He could have its power for his
own, it whispered.  He could command it as he wished, and it would give
him anything.

He broke from the shadows of the garden into the light, free of the
vines, of the voices, of the touch of those that dwelled there.  He was
a terrible, wasted thing, not in any way human, but something so dark
and vile as to be unrecognizable.
He slouched and oozed his way onto the stone of the walkway, the Black
Elfstone clutched to him, the lines of power trailing invisibly behind,
strings that only he could see, threads that could pull him back in an
instant's time.  Ahead, the Elves who had come with him into the Chew
Magna watched in horror.
On seeing him emerge, they drew their weapons with a cry and braced
themselves to meet his attack.  He looked at them and did not know who
they were.  He looked at them and did not care.

Then Jerle Shannara held up his hand to stay the weapons of his
companions.  He came forward alone, unaided, staring fixedly at the
apparition before him.  When he was within only a few yards, he stopped
and whispered in the stillness, his voice ragged and harsh and filled
with despair.  "Tay Trefenwyd?"

The sound of his name being spoken by Jerle Shannara gave Tay back his
life.  The Druid magic, held in check within the deepest, most
impenetrable core of his being, surged through him, exploded out of
him.  It freed him from the trappings of the guise he had assumed,
brought him out from the darkness that had enveloped him, from the
quagmire into which he had sunk.  It burned away the shell of the
creature he had made him self.  It burned away the madness that had
consumed him.  It re built him in an instant's time, his features and
identity restored, his reason and beliefs given back.

Then it severed the lines of power that trailed after him, giving him
sole possession of the Black Elfstone.

The garden went berserk.  Vines and trees surged out of the earth with
such force that they threatened to tear loose from their roots.
They lunged for the Black Elfstone and Tay Trefenwyd, first to
recover, then to destroy.  But Tay was shielded by his Druid fire, the
magic set in place at the moment of his release, preordered to protect
him from the garden's rage.  Vines hammered down at him, wound about
him, and tried to drag him back into the shadowy depths.  But the fire
held them at bay, burned them to ash, and kept the Druid safe.

Jerle Shannara and the rest of the company rushed forward, swords and
knives slicing at the waving mass of vines.  No!
thought Tay as he struggled to slow them.  No, stay clear!  He had told
them not to come near him, had warned Jerle expressly that they must
not!  But the Elves were unable to help them selves, seeing him
returned and bearing the prized Elfstone, believing he was in need.
So they charged bravely, recklessly ahead, weapons drawn, heedless of
the magnitude of the danger they faced.

Too late they realized their mistake.  The garden turned on them as
swiftly as thought.  It caught the closest Elven Hunter before he could
leap clear, bore him away from his fellows, and ripped him to shreds.
Frantically Tay extended the protection of the Druid fire to his
beleaguered friends, allowing his own shield to weaken.  Then he broke
for the safety of the stairs, yelling at the others to follow after
him.  They did so, all but one-another of the Hunters, too slow to
react, caught from behind as he turned and dragged to his doom.

Tay reached the stairs and bolted up their broad sweep.
He could feel the collapse of the lines of power all about him.
He could feel the ebbing of the garden's magic.  Stealing the Black
Elfstone had caused irretrievable damage deep within the life force of
the Chew Magna, and the fabric of its skin was rent beyond repair.
Beneath his feet, he could feel the earth begin to shudder.

"What is it?  What's happening?"  Jerle cried out, coming abreast of
him.

"The fortress is collapsing!"  Tay shouted.  "We must get out!"


They sprinted into the corridors of the keep, through the tangle of
halls, down the shadowed, empty passageways, and back toward the
fissure that had admitted them.  A strange and unsettling mix of
elation and discomfort roiled through Tay's breast.  He was free, his
gambit a success, and his blood raced with the thought.  But the
measure of its cost had not yet been taken.  He did not feel right
something had been done to him in the garden, something he could not
yet identify.  He looked down at himself, as if thinking to find some
piece missing.  But he was whole, he saw, unharmed.  The damage was
inside.

Cracks appeared along the ancient walls of the fortress, splitting and
widening before them.  Stone blocks shook violently and crumbled.
Tay had destroyed the power of the Chew Magna, the carefully
constructed magic that sustained the garden and the keep more fragile
than he had realized.  The Chew Magna was coming down.  Its time in the
world, extended for so long, was at an end.

Preia Starle bolted past him and sprinted ahead, shouting back over her
shoulder.  She was resuming her place as scout for the company once
more.  She flew across the shuddering stone, slender limbs and cinnamon
hair flying.  Tay peered after her, unable to see her as clearly as he
should.  His vision was blurred, and he was having trouble breathing.
He gulped mouthfuls of air, and still it was not enough.

He was stumbling when Jerle Shannara caught up with him, slowed,
wrapped one powerful arm about his sagging body, and pulled him on.
Behind them charged Vree Erreden and the last of the Elven Hunters.

Walls and ceilings were collapsing as they broke from the keep and
raced across the courtyard to the outer wall and the gates that had
brought them in.  Tay felt a fire burning in his chest.  Some part of
the garden's foul magic, he realized, was still inside him.  He tried
to seal it off, to close it away from the rest of his body, using his
own magic to suffocate it.  He glanced down at himself, trying to draw
reassurance from what he saw.

To his horror, the Black Elfstone was pulsing softly against his
chest.
He wrenched his glance away, covering the dark gem hurriedly so that
the others would not see.

The five dashed through the fortress gates and up the stairs that led
back to the fissure's entry.  The rumbling behind them had grown
louder, infused with the sound of stone cracking and sliding away.
Dust clogged the passageway, and they could scarcely breathe.  Vree
Erreden was beginning to lag as well, and the Elven Hunter who ran
beside him slowed to help.  Like old men, the four stumbled ahead,
coughing and choking, trying to keep up with Preia Starle.

There was an explosion deep within the mountain, and a vast cloud of
debris hammered into them from behind, knocking them from their feet to
sprawl on the stairs.  Shaken and dazed, they scrambled up determinedly
and went on.

Tay's strength was failing badly.  The pain inside him was spreading.
He could feel the pulse of the Black Elfstone grow stronger as it
throbbed against his chest.  That part of the garden's magic still
locked within him was feeding into the magic of the Elfstone.  He had
disguised himself too well.  He had altered himself too thoroughly.
He had thought he would be able to recover from what he had done, but
the sickness with which he had invested himself would not be so easily
dispelled.  He gritted his teeth and pressed on.  It was a risk he had
accepted.
There was nothing to be done about it now.

Then they were clear of the fissure and back out onto the slide leading
down to the lake within the mountain crater.  Preia Starle stood frozen
directly before them, only yards away.

"Shades!"  hissed Jerle Shannara.

Before them, arrayed in a broad semicircle that cut off any possibility
of escape, were dozens of Gnome Hunters.  At their center,
black-cloaked and hunched down like wraiths awaiting night, were a pair
of the dreaded Skull Bearers.

Their pursuers had caught up with them at last.

The Elves stumbled to a ragged halt behind Preia.  Tay counted
quickly.
They were five matched against almost a hundred.  They stood no
chance.  Preia backed carefully to Jerle's side.  She had not drawn a
weapon.

"They were waiting when I came out," she said quietly.
There was no fear in her voice.  She glanced at Tay, and her face was
oddly calm.  "They are too many for us."

Jerle nodded.  He glanced at Tay, grim-faced.  Behind them, the fissure
belched grit and dust as a new explosion tore through the mountain.
The earth shuddered beneath them, still reacting to the fall of the
Chew Magna and the giving up of its magic.

"We'll have to go back," Jerle whispered.  "Maybe we can find another
way out."

But there was no other way, Tay knew.  There was only this way, through
the Skull Bearers and the Gnome Hunters.  Going back into the fissure
was suicide.  The entire mountain was collapsing, and anything caught
within its tunnels would be crushed.  Behind and to his left, the
remaining Elven Hunter re leased his grip on Vree Erreden and let the
other man slide to the rock floor.  The locat was just barely
conscious.  There was blood on his head and face.  When had that
happened?  Tay wondered.  How had he missed it?

The Elven Hunter came forward to stand beside him.

Hopeless, Tay thought.

He eased himself away from Jerle then, testing his strength to stand on
his own.  He found he could do so.  He straightened, then looked
directly at his friend.  Jerle stared back at him suspiciously, and
Tay smiled at the other in spite of himself.  Preia Starle watched him
curiously.  Her eyes were bright and challenging, and he thought that
maybe she saw what Jerle did not.

"Wait here for me," he said.

"What are you going to do?"  Jerle demanded at once, stepping forward
to take hold of his arm, to restrain him.

Carefully, Tay freed himself.  "I'll be all right," he said.
"Just wait here."

He went down the slope, picking his way carefully on the smooth, loose
rock, feeling long tremors rumble through the mountain as the
destruction of the Chew Magna continued.
He glanced upward along the cliff face to the sky, taking in the
expanse of the crater's walls and its still, captured lake, the
mountain peaks, and the fading sun.  He allowed his thoughts to
drift.
He thought of Bremen and Risca, far away now in some other part of the
Four Lands, waging their own fight.  He imaged how it must be for
them.  He thought about his family and his home in Arborlon, his
parents and Kira, his brother and wife and children, his friends of
old, the places he had lived.  He thought of doomed Paranor and the
Druids.  He took the measure of things past and present in a few brief
moments, scattered his musings out before him, swept them up again,
and put them away for good.

He stopped when he was only a dozen yards from the Skull Bearers.
They had risen from their crouch and were watching him with baleful red
eyes, their faces hidden within the darkness of their hooded cloaks.
He lacked the magic necessary to stand against them, he knew.  He had
used himself up in the Chew Magna, and he was sick and worn.  He
accepted this calmly.  The quest for the Black Elfstone was finished.
All that remained was to see the Stone safely returned to Arborlon.
Those with him must be given the chance to complete their journey
home.
He must see to it.  Where once he would have been enough to protect
them all, now he was barely able to protect himself.  Yet he would have
to do.  He was all they had.

He looked down at his tightly clutched hand.  The power of the Black
Elfstone lay within.  Bremen had warned him not to invoke it, and he
had given his word to the old man that he would not.  But things did
not always work out the way you wanted.

He brought up his fist in a sudden sweep, feeling the dark pulse of the
Elfstone against his palm.  Summoning every last
ounce of strength and determination that remained to him, he reached
down into the heart of the dark magic and called forth its power.
Already the Skull Bearers were reacting.  Realizing the danger, they
summoned their own deadly fire, a wicked green brilliance they launched
at him with deadly efficiency.  But they were not quick enough.  The
Black Elfstone had been awaiting Tay's summons, anticipating it, linked
to him from the moment of its taking, master to slave with the roles
not yet determined.
Pulsing with expectation, its magic surged from between his fingers in
a swath of non-light, a black void that swallowed up everything in its
path.  It smashed the fire of the Skull Bearers.  It smashed the Skull
Bearers themselves.  It smashed the Gnome Hunters, all of them, even
those who tried to flee, down to the last terrified man.  It devoured
everything.  It burned men and monsters to ash, then stole away their
lives and fed them back into the holder of the Stone.

Tay shuddered and cried out as the Elfstone's magic returned to him,
imbued with the lives of its victims.  Deep into his body went the evil
of the Skull Bearers and the killing force of their fire.  All of their
dark intent and wicked need surged through him, filling him, ravaging
him.  He recognized in that instant the secret of the Black Elfstone's
power-to negate the power of other magics, to steal them away, to make
them its own.  But the price was hideous, for the power stolen became
the power of the Elfstone's holder and changed the holder forever.

It was over in seconds.  The whole of the enemy force that had
confronted them was destroyed.  On the sweep of the crater slope there
were only bits of clothing and weapons and small piles of ash.  In the
air, there was the smell of burning flesh.
Across the surface of the still crater waters, there were ripples from
the passing of the Black Elfstone's heat.

Tay dropped to his knees, the expended magic roiling through him.
He could feel it eating away at his body and spirit, reducing them to
dust.  There was nothing he could do to stop it.  He was being
destroyed and made over.  The Black Elfstone tumbled from his nerveless
fingers onto the rocks and lay still.  Its non-light had gone out.  Its
pulsing had ceased.  Tay stared fixedly at it, trying to find a way to
concentrate his magic in an effort to stop what was happening to him.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain.  Nothing could have
prepared him for this-nothing.  He had disobeyed Bremen, and this was
the price.

Then Jerle Shannara was holding him, bending close and saying
something.  Preia was there, too.  He could hear their voices, but he
could not understand the words.  He kept his eyes closed, fighting off
the Black Elfstone's magic.  He had gone back into the garden one time
too many.  The magic had seeded in him, taken root, and waited for him
to succumb to its lure.  It was a trap he had not foreseen.  There had
been too many other considerations, too many distractions.

"Tay!"  he heard Preia cry.

Something dark was growing inside him now, something vast and
unimaginably evil.  He was being cast anew in the wake of the infusion
of magic that had brought with it the foul essence of the Skull
Bearers.  He was being subverted.  He could not fight it off.  He was
too badly damaged to do so.

"Preia!"  he whispered.  "Tell Bremen .  . ."

Then he was drifting, lost in another time and place.  It was summer in
Arborlon, and he was a child again.  He was at play with Jerle and had
fallen while trying to scale a wall.  He had struck his head hard and
was lying in the grass.  Jerle was beside him, saying, Oh, don't be
such a baby!  That fall was nothing!
You aren't hurt!  And he was struggling to rise, partially stunned,
scraped about the elbows and face, when Preia, who was playing with
them, took him in her arms and held him, saying, Stay quiet, Tay.
Wait a moment until the dizziness passes.  There's no hurry.

He opened his eyes.  Jerle Shannara was cradling him in his arms, his
strong face stricken.  Preia knelt close, her eyes filled with tears,
her face streaked with them.

His hand found hers and held it.

Then, as he had done with Retten Kipp, he used his magic to draw the
air from his lungs.  Slowly he felt his heart and his pulse slow.
He felt the destruction of his body slow as well, thwarted.  He grew
sleepy.  It was all that was left him.  Sleep.

Darkness filmed his eyes and stole away his sight.  He sighed once.
Death came swiftly, gently, and bore him away.

THE FORGING OF THE SWORD

CHAPTER 18

BREMEN, Mareth, and Kinson Ravenlock took the better part of a week to
reach Hearthstone.  They walked the entire way, both the Druid and the
Tracker believing that they would make better time afoot than on horse
back.  This was country they both knew, having traveled it often, and
the shortcuts they had discovered over the years could not be navigated
on horseback.  There would come a point early in the journey when the
horses could go no farther on any trail and would have to be
abandoned.
It was better simply to go on foot from the beginning and not
complicate matters.

All well and good for them, Mareth thought.  They were used to walking
long distances.  She was not.  But she said nothing.

Kinson led the way, setting a pace he thought would be comfortable for
all three.  He knew Mareth wasn't as conditioned to foot travel as
Bremen and himself, but she was tough enough.  He kept them on even
ground for the first two days, when the roads and trails were still
visible and the terrain relatively flat.  He stopped often to let
Mareth rest, making certain she took water each time.  At night, he
checked her boots and feet to make certain both were sound.
Surprisingly enough, she let him do this without arguing.  She had
retreated within her self a bit since Bremen's return, and Kinson
assumed she was preparing for the moment when she would tell the Druid
the truth about herself.

Meanwhile, they pressed on through the passes of the Wolfsktaag into
Darklin Reach.  Much of the time they followed the Rabb River, for it
provided a recognizable reference point and a means for locating
drinking water.  The days were slow and sunny, and the nights were
calm.  The deep woods sheltered and soothed, and the journey proceeded
without incident.

On their third night out, Mareth kept her promise and told Bremen she
had lied to him about her time at Storlock.  She had not been one of
the Stors, had not been accepted into their order, and had not studied
healing with them.  What she knew of magic, whether healing or
otherwise, she had taught herself.
Her skills had been mastered through laborious and sometimes painful
experience.  It seemed to her that her magic worked best when it was
employed for healing, that she did better in those instances at keeping
it under control.

She revealed as well her relationship with Cogline.  She admitted
Cogline had urged her to go to the Druids at Paranor, had told her to
seek help with her magic there, and had assisted her in forging the
necessary documents to gain admission.

Somewhat to Kinson's surprise, Bremen was not angry with her.  He
listened attentively as she spoke, nodded in response, and said
nothing.  They were seated around the cooking fire, dinner consumed,
the flames burned almost to coals, and the night about them bright with
moon and stars.  He did not glance at Kinson.  He seemed, in fact, to
have forgotten the Borderman was even there.

When the girl had finished, Bremen smiled encouragingly.
"Well, you are a bold young lady.  And I appreciate your confidence in
both Kinson and myself.  Certainly, we will try to help you.
As for Cogline, this business of sending you off to Storlock to learn
about your magic, giving you false references, encouraging you to
dissemble-that sounds exactly like him.  Cogline has no love for the
Druids.  He would tweak their collective noses at the slightest
provocation.  But he also knew, I think, that if you were determined
enough to discover the truth about your magic, if you were the genuine
article, so to speak, you would eventually find your way to me."

"Do you know Cogline well?"  Mareth asked.

"As well as anyone knows him.  He was a Druid before me.
He was a Druid in the time of the First War of the Races.  He knew
Brona.  In some ways, he sympathized with him.  He thought that all
avenues of learning should be encouraged and no form of study
forbidden.  He was something of a rebel him self in that respect.  But
Cogline was also a good and careful man.  He would never have risked
himself as Brona did.

"He left the Druid order before Brona.  He left because he grew
disenchanted with the structure under which he was required to
study.
His interest lay in the lost sciences, in sciences that had served the
old world before its destruction.  But the High Druid and the Druid
Council were not supportive of his work.  In those days, they favored
magic-a power that Cogline distrusted.  For them, the old sciences were
better left in peace.
They might have served the old world, but they had also de stroyed
it.
Uncovering their secrets should be done slowly and cautiously and for
limited use only.  Cogline thought this nonsense.  Science would not
be contained, he would argue.  It would not be revealed according to
Man's agenda, but according to its own."

Bremen rocked back slightly, arms clasped about knees drawn up, all
bones and angles, his smile one of reminiscence.
"So Cogline left, infuriated at what had been done to him-and at what
he had done to himself, I imagine.  He went off into Darklin Reach and
resumed his studies on his own.  I would see him now and then, cross
paths with him.  We would talk.
We would exchange information and ideas.  We were both out casts of a
sort.  Except that Cogline refused to consider him self a Druid any
longer, while I refused to consider myself anything less."

"He's been alive longer than you have," Kinson observed casually,
poking at the coals of the fire with a stick, refusing to meet Bremen's
gaze.

"He has use of the Druid Sleep, if that's what you are getting at,"
Bremen replied quietly.  "It is the one indulgence of magic's use that
he permits himself.  He is mistrustful of the rest.
All of it."  He glanced at Mareth.  "He thinks the magic dangerous and
uncontrollable.  He would have taken some delight, I expect, in
learning that you found it that way as well.  In sending you to
Paranor, he was hoping to make a point.  The trouble is, you hid your
secret too well, and the Druids never discovered what you were capable
of doing."

Mareth nodded, but said nothing.  Her dark eyes looked off into space
thoughtfully.

Kinson stretched.  He felt impatient and irritated with both of them.
People complicated their own lives unnecessarily.  This was just
another example.

He caught Bremen's eye.  "Now that we have all our secrets and past
history on the table, tell me this.  Why are we going to Hearthstone?
What is it that we want with Cogline?"

Bremen studied him a moment before replying.  "As I said, Cogline has
continued his study of the old sciences.  He knows secrets lost to
everyone else.  One of those secrets might be of use to us."

He stopped, smiled.  He had said all he was going to say, Kinson could
tell.  There was probably a reason for this beyond irritating the
living daylights out of the Borderman, but Kinson did not care either
to speculate or to ask what it was.  He nodded as if satisfied and
rose.

"I will take the first watch," he announced, and stalked off into the
dark.

He sat brooding over the matter until after midnight when Bremen came
to relieve him.  The old man materialized out of nowhere-Kinson never
heard him coming-and sat down next to the Borderman.  They kept each
other company for a long time without speaking, looking out into the
night.  They were seated on a low bluff that overlooked the Rabb as it
snaked its way through the trees, its surface flat and silver with
moonlight.
The woods were quiet and sleepy, and the air smelled of juniper and
spruce.  Darklin Reach began just west of where they camped.
Starting tomorrow, the terrain would turn rugged and travel would grow
much more difficult.

"What Cogline can give us," the old man said suddenly, his voice soft
and compelling, "is the benefit of his knowledge of metallurgy.
Do you remember the visions?  They are centered around the creation of
a weapon of magic that will destroy the Warlock Lord.  The weapon is a
sword.  The sword will be borne in battle by a man we have not yet
met.
The sword requires many things to endow it with sufficient strength to
withstand the power of Brona.  One of those things is a forging process
that will make it the equal of any weapon ever shaped.  Cogline will
give us that process."

He looked at Kinson and smiled.  "I thought it best to keep that piece
of information between ourselves."

Kinson nodded and did not reply.  He looked down at his feet, nodded
again, and then rose.  "Good night, Bremen."

He started to walk away.

"Kinson?"

The Borderman turned.  Bremen was looking away again, staring out over
the river and the woods.  "I would not be so sure that all the secrets
and past history are on the table yet, either.  Mareth is a very
cautious and deliberate young woman.
She has her own reasons for doing what she does, and she keeps them to
herself until she thinks it prudent to reveal them."  He paused.  "As
you already know.  Good night."

Kinson held his ground a moment more, then walked away.


They pushed on for another three days through country so rough and
tangled that the only trails they encountered were those made by
animals.  They saw no other humans, and they found no human tracks.
The country had turned hilly, serrated by ravines and ridgelines,
eroded by flash floods from spring time cresting of the Rabb, choked by
scrub and grasses grown waist-high.  The river broke out of its channel
in a dozen places, forming loops and sloughs, and they could no longer
rely on its banks to provide either a footpath or a reference point.
Kinson took them away from the jumble of waterways into the deep woods,
choosing country where the shade of the old growth kept the scrub and
grass from growing so thick and thereby offered better passage across
the drops and splits.  The weather stayed good, so they were able to
make reasonable progress, even with the changing topography.

As they traveled, Bremen walked with Mareth, speaking about her magic
and counseling on its use.

"There are ways in which you can control it," he offered.
"The difficulty lies in identifying the ways.  Innate magic is more
complicated than acquired magic.  With acquired magic, you learn its
usage through trial and error, building on your knowledge as you go.
You discover what works and what doesn't; it
is predictable, and usually you come to understand the why of things.
But with innate magic, that isn't always possible.  Innate magic is
simply there, born to you, a part of your flesh and blood.  It does
what it will, when it will, often how it will, and you are left to
discover the why of things as best you can.

"The problem of controlling innate magic is further complicated by
other factors which influence the way magic works.
Your character can affect the results of the magic's implementation.
Your emotions, your mood.  The makeup of your body you have built-in
defenses to anything that threatens your health, and these can affect
the way the magic responds.  Your view of the world, Mareth, your
attitude, your beliefs, your reasoning-they can all determine
results.
The magic is a chameleon.  Sometimes it simply gives up and goes away,
will not try to breach your defenses or the obstacles you place in its
path.
Sometimes it mounts a rush to overcome them, to break through and work
its will in spite of all you do to stop it."

"What is it that so affects me?"  she asked him.

And he replied, "That is what we have to discover."

On the sixth day of their journey, they reached Hearth stone.  It was
just after midday, and they had come down out of a range of broad,
steep hills and rugged valleys that heralded the approach of the
Ravenshorn Mountains.  They were hot and footsore, and having left the
Rabb and its tributaries far behind, they had not bathed in two days.
No one was doing much talking this day; they were concentrating all
their energies on reaching their destination before nightfall, as
Kinson had promised they would.  Despite the fearsome reputation of
Darklin Reach, nothing had threatened them on their journey and, if
anything, they were growing bored with the tedium of their travel.  So
it was a relief to catch sight of the solitary, chimney shaped spire
that jutted skyward in the bright sunlight that lit the far end of the
small valley directly before them.  They emerged from a stretch of
spruce and hemlock where the shadows were so thick they had to grope
their way clear, and there it was.  Kinson pointed, but Bremen and
Mareth were already nodding and smiling in recognition.

They went down off the hills through patches of wildflowers to the
cool shadow of the woods that filled the valley floor.
It was silent as they passed through towering stands of hard woods-red
elm, white and black oak, shagbark hickory, and birch.
Conifers grew there as well, shaggy, hoary, and ancient, but the
hardwoods dominated.  Hemmed in by a canopy of limbs and a wall of
trunks, they quickly lost sight of Hearth stone.  Kinson led, still
looking for tracks, still not finding any, but now wondering why.  If
Cogline lived in the valley, didn't he ever walk around in it?  There
were no signs of human habitation.  There were birds and small ground
animals, but not much of anything else.

They crossed a stream, a spray of cold mist washing over them from
where the waters tumbled down a rapids.  Kinson brushed at his face,
closed his eyes against the coolness, and wiped the sweat from his
brow.  He blinked away the damp as he walked, listening to the silence,
glancing back at Bremen and Mareth, who followed a few steps behind.
He felt a twinge of uneasiness, but he couldn't identify its source.
His Tracker's in stincts told him something was wrong, but neither of
his companions seemed bothered.

He dropped back a step to walk with them.  "Something doesn't feel
right," he muttered.

Mareth looked at him blankly.  Bremen only shrugged.  Irritated,
Kinson strode on ahead once more.  They crossed a broad clearing to a
stand of fir and pushed through the curtain of boughs.  Suddenly Kinson
smelled smoke.  He slowed and turned to warn the other two.

"Keep your eyes forward," Bremen warned.  He glanced past Kinson, and
as he did so, the Tracker saw Mareth's eyes grow huge.

Kinson whirled back and found himself face-to-face with the biggest
moor cat he had ever seen.  The moor cat was standing six feet away,
staring at him.  The lantern eyes were a luminous yellow, and the
muzzle was black, but the rest of the cat was a curious brindle
patchwork.  Moor cats were rarely seen, and it was commonly said that
seeing one was usually the last event in a person's life.  Moor cats
kept mostly to themselves, living out their lives in the Eastland
swamps.  They were difficult to spy out because they could change color
to blend into their surroundings.  They ran on average six to eight
feet long and up to three feet tall at the shoulder, but this one was a
dozen feet from nose to tail and at least four feet at the shoulder.
It was nearly eye level with Kinson, and if it chose it would be on top
of him before he could blink.

"Bremen," he said softly.

From behind him, he heard a strange chattering sound, and the moor cat
cocked its massive head in response.  The sound came again, and now
Kinson realized that its source was Bremen.  The moor cat licked its
muzzle, made a similar noise in re sponse, turned, and walked away.

Bremen came up beside the stunned Borderman and put a reassuring hand
on his shoulder.  "That's Cogline's cat.  I'd say we're close to our
man, wouldn't you?"

They walked out of the stand of fir, crossed a glade bisected by a
meandering stream, and angled past a massive old white oak the while the
moor cat paced on ahead, neither hurrying nor lagging, seemingly
disinterested, but at the same time letting them keep it in sight.
Kinson looked questioningly at Mareth, but she shook her head.
Apparently, she didn't know any more about this than he did.

Finally they reached a broad clearing in which a small cabin had been
built.  The cabin was rustic and weathered, badly in need of repairs,
pieces of clapboard siding come loose, shutters off their hinges,
planks on the narrow porch splintered and cracked.  The roof looked
solid enough and the chimney was sound, but a vegetable garden planted
just south was in disarray and weeds nuzzled the cabin foundation
expectantly.  A man stood in front of the cabin waiting for them, and
Kinson knew at once from Mareth's description of him that this was
Cogline.
He was tall and stooped, a bony, ragged figure, rather disheveled and
unkempt, in clothes that looked to be in about the same shape as the
cabin.  His hair was dark, but shot through with gray, and it stuck out
from his angular head like a hedge hog's spines.  A narrow, pointed
beard jutted from his chin, and a mustache drooped off his upper lip.
Lines creased his weathered face, furrows that marked more than the
passing of his years.  He put his hands on his hips and let them come
to him, a broad smile twisting his face.

"Well, well, well!"  he exclaimed enthusiastically.  "The girl from
Storlock comes calling.  Wouldn't have thought to see you again.
You've got more spunk than I'd given you credit for.
Found the true master of the lore, too, have you?  Well met, Bremen of
Paranor!"

"Well met, Cogline," Bremen replied, extending his hand, letting the
other clasp it momentarily in his own.  "Sent your cat to greet us, I
see.  What's his name?  Shifter?  Startled my friend so badly he may
have lost five years off his life."

"Hah, we have the remedy for that, and if that's Kinson Ravenlock who's
with you, he probably knows it already!"
Cogline gave the Borderman a wave.  "Druid Sleep will give you back
those years in a blink!"  He cocked his angular face.  "You know what
the cat's for, my friend?"  Kinson shook his head.  "He screens out
unwelcome guests, which includes just about every one.  The only ones
who get this far are the ones who know how to talk to him.  Bremen
knows how, don't you, old man?"

Bremen laughed.  "Old man?  Pot and the kettle there, wouldn't you
say?"

"I wouldn't say yes, and I wouldn't say no.  So the girl found you, did
she?  Took her long enough.  Mareth, isn't it?"  Cogline bowed
slightly.  "Lovely name for a lovely girl.  Hope you drove all those
Druids to distraction and a bad end."

Bremen came forward a step.  The smile disappeared from his face.
"The Druids found a bad end all on their own, I'm afraid.  Not two
weeks past, Cogline.  They're all dead at Paranor save myself and two
more.  Hadn't you heard?"

The other man stared at him as if he were mad, then shook his head.
"Not a word.  But I haven't been out of the valley for a while
either.
All dead?  You're certain of that, are you?"

Bremen reached into his robes and brought forth the Eilt Druin.  He held
it up for the other to see, letting it dangle in the light.

Cogline screwed up his mouth.  "Sure enough.  You wouldn't have
possession of that if Athabasca lived.  All dead, you say?
Shades!  What did them in?  Him, was it?"

Bremen nodded.  There was no need to speak the name.

Cogline shook his head again, folded his arms across his chest, and
hugged himself.  "I didn't wish that for them.  I never wished that.
But they were fools, Bremen, and you know it.  They built up their
walls and closed up their gates and forgot their purpose.  They drove
us out, the only two who, had an ounce of sense, the only two who
understood what mattered.  Galaphile would have been ashamed of them.
But all dead?  Shades!"

"We've come to talk about it," Bremen said quietly.

The other's sharp eyes snapped up to meet those of the old "Of course
you did.  You came all this way to give me the man.
news and talk about it.  Kind of you.  Well, we know each other, don't
we?  One old, the other older.  One a renegade, the other a castoff.
Neither one the least bit devious.  Hah!"

Cogline's chuckle was dry and mirthless.  He looked at the ground a
moment; then his gaze swept up to Kinson.  "Say, Tracker-you see the
other one on your way in, sharp-eyed as you are?"

Kinson hesitated.  "Other what?"

"Hah!  Thought so!  Other cat, that's what!  Didn't see it?"
Cogline snorted.  "Well, all I can say is, it's a good thing Bremen
likes you or you'd probably be someone's meal by now!"  He chuckled,
then lost interest and threw up his hands.  "Well, come on, come on!
No point standing around out here.  There's food waiting on the fire.
I suppose you'll want a bath, too.  More work for me, not that it
matters to you.  But I'm a good host, aren't I?  Come on!"

Mumbling and grousing, he turned and loped up the steps and into the
cabin, his visitors trailing obediently behind.

THEY WASHED THEMSELVES and their clothes, dried as best they could,
dressed anew, and were sitting down to dinner by the time the sun
set.
The sky turned orange and gold, then crimson, and finally an
indigo-amethyst that left even Kinson staring out through the screen of
the trees in amazement.  The meal Cogline served them was better than
the Borderman would have expected, a stew of meat and vegetables, with
bread, cheese, and cold ale.  They ate at a table set out in back of
the cabin with the night sky visible above, its collection of stars
laid out in kaleidoscopic order.  Candles lit the table, giving off
some sort of incense that Cogline claimed kept the insects away.  Maybe
his claim was well founded, Kinson conceded, because there didn't seem
to be anything flying about while they ate.

The moor cats joined them, wandering in with the darkness to curl up
close to the table.  As Cogline had advised, there were two-a brother
and a sister.  Shifter, the male, whom they had encountered on their
way in, was the larger of the pair, while the female, Smoke, was
smaller and leaner.  Cogline said he had found them as kittens,
abandoned in the swamp regions of Olden Moor and prey at that age to
the Werebeasts.  They were hungry and frightened and clearly in need,
so he took them home.  He laughed at the memory.  Little bits of fur
then, but they grew up quick enough.  He hadn't done anything to make
them stay they chose to do that on their own.  Probably liked his
companionship, he opined.

Twilight came and went, and night deepened into warm breezes and soft
silence.  The meal concluded, and as they sat back to sip ale from
fired clay mugs, Bremen told Cogline what had befallen the Druids at
Paranor.  When he was finished, the once-Druid sat back with ale glass
in hand and shook his head in disgust.

"Fools all, down to the last man," he said.  "I'm sorry for them, sorry
they came to such an end, but mad, too, because they wasted the
opportunities Galaphile and the others gave them in forming the First
Council.  They lost sight of their purpose, of the reason for their
being.  I can't forgive them that."

He spit into the darkness.  Smoke looked up at him and blinked,
startled.  Shifter never moved.  Kinson looked from one to the other,
wild-haired recluse and his pet moor cats, and wondered what living out
here for any length of time did to your mind.

"When I left the Druids, I went to the Hadeshorn and spoke with the
spirits of the dead," Bremen went on.  He sipped at his ale, the
creases of his weathered face deepening with the memory.  "Galaphile
himself came to me.  I asked him what I might do to destroy Brona.  In
response, he showed to me four visions."  He described them one by
one.
"it is the vision of the man with the sword that brings me to you."

Cogline's angular face squinched down on itself like a fist.
"Am I supposed to help you find this man?  Am I supposed to know
him?"

Bremen shook his head.  His gray hair looked as fine as silk in the
candlelight.  "It is not the man, but the sword that requires your
attention.  This is a talisman that I must forge.  The vision reveals
that the Eilt Druin will be transformed by the forging and made part of
the weapon.  The weapon will be an athema to Brona.  I don't pretend to
understand the particulars as yet.  I only know the nature of the
weapon that is needed.
And I know that special care must be taken in its forging if it is to
be strong enough to overcome Brona's magic."

"So you've come all the way here to ask me about it, have you?"  said
the other, as if the curtain had just been raised and the truth
revealed.

"No one knows more about the science of metallurgy than you.  The
forging process must be a fusion of science and magic if it is to be
successful.  I have the magic-my own and that of the Eilt Druin-to
incorporate into the process.  But I need your knowledge of science.  I
need what science alone can provide the proper mix of metals, the
correct temperatures of the furnace at each melding, and the exact
times of curing.  What form of tempering must be used if the metal is
to be strong enough to withstand whatever force is directed against
it?"

Cogline dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand.  "You can just
stop right there.  You've already missed the point.  Magic and science
do not mix.  We both know that.  So if you want a weapon forged of
magic, then use magic.  You don't need any thing from me."

Bremen shook his head.  "We have to bend the rules a bit, I'm afraid.
Magic is not enough to accomplish the task.  Science is needed as
well.
Science brought out of the old world.  Brona is a creature of magic,
and magic is what he has armored him self against.  He does not know
science, does not care about it, has no regard for it.  For him, as for
so many, science is dead and gone, a part of the old world.  But we
know differently, don't we?  Science lies dormant as magic once did.
Magic is favored now, but that does not mean that science has no
place.
It may be necessary in the forging of this sword.  If I can implement
the best techniques of old world science, I have one more strength on
which to rely.  I need that strength.  I am alone with Kinson and
Mareth.  Besides us, there are only two more who are allied with us,
one gone east, the other west.  We are all.
Our magic is but a fraction of that of our enemy.  How shall we prevail
against the Warlock Lord and his minions without a weapon against which
they cannot defend?"

Cogline sniffed.  "There is no such weapon.  Besides, there is nothing
to say that a weapon forged of science-in whole or in part-would stand
any better chance than one forged of magic.
It might just as easily be true that magic is all that can prevail
against magic, and that any form of science is useless."

" I do not believe that."

"Believe what you choose."  Cogline rubbed irritably at his hair.
A scowl twisted his thin mouth.  "I left the world and its more
conventional beliefs behind me a long time ago.  I haven't missed
them."

"But both will catch up with you sooner or later, just as they catch up
with us all.  They won't go away or cease to be simply because you
reject them."  Bremen's eyes fixed on the other.
"Brona will come here one day, after he has finished with those of us
who have not hidden away.  You must know that."

Cogline's face hardened.  "He will rue that day, I promise you!"

Bremen waited, saying nothing, not choosing to challenge the
statement.
Kinson glanced at Mareth.  She met his gaze and held it.
He knew she was thinking the same thing he was-that Cogline's posturing
was vain and foolish, that his thinking was patently ridiculous.  Yet
Bremen did not choose to challenge him.

Cogline shifted uneasily on the bench.  "Why do you press me so,
Bremen!  What is it that you expect of me?  want no part of the
Druids!"

Bremen nodded, his face calm, his gaze steady.  "Nor they of you.

The Druids are gone.  There is no part of them left to he had.  There
are only the two of us, Cogline, old men who have stayed alive longer
than they should, conjurers of the Druid Sleep.  I grow weary, but I
shall not rest until I have done what I can for those who have not
lived so long-the men, women, and children of the Races.  These are the
ones who need our help.  Tell me.  Should we have no part of them
either?"

Cogline started to answer and stopped.  Everyone sitting at the table
knew what he was tempted to say and how foolish the words would
sound.
His jaw muscles tightened in frustration.
There was indecision in his sharp eyes.

"What cost to you if you choose to help us?"  Bremen pressed quietly.
"If you would truly have no part of the Druids, then consider this.
The Druids would not have helped in this indeed, chose not to help when
they had the chance.  They were the ones who determined that their
order should stay separate and apart from the politics of the Races.
That choice de stroyed them.  Now the same choice is given to you.  The
same choice, Cogline-make no mistake.  Isolation or involvement.
Which is it to be?"


They sat silent about the table, the Druid, the once-Druid, the
Tracker, and the girl, the night enfolding deep and calm about them.
The big cats lay sleeping, the sound of their breathing a soft, regular
whistle of air through damp nostrils.
The air smelled of burning wood, food, and the forest.  There was
comfort and peace all about.  The four were cocooned away in the heart
of Darklin Reach, and if you tried hard enough, Kinson Ravenlock
thought, you might imagine that nothing of the outside world could ever
reach you here.

Bremen leaned forward slightly, but the distance between himself and
Cogline seemed to close dramatically.  "What is there to think about,
my friend?  You and I, we have known what the right answer is all of
our lives, haven't we?"

Cogline snorted derisively, brushed at the air in front of him, looked
off into the darkness, then wheeled back irritably.
"There is a metal as strong as iron, but far lighter, more flexible,
and less brittle.  An alloy really, a mix of metals, that was in use in
the old world, conceived of the old science.  Iron mostly, tempered by
carbon at high temperature.  A sword forged of that mix would be
formidable indeed."  He looked sharply at Bremen.  "But the
temperatures used in the tempering are far greater than what a smith
can generate in his forge.  Engines are needed to generate temperatures
of this magnitude, and those engines are lost to us."

"Have you the process?"  Bremen asked.

Cogline nodded and tapped his head.  "Up here.  I will give it to
you.
Anything to send you on your way and end this pointless lecturing!
Still, I cannot see its use.  Without a kiln or furnace hot enough .
.
."

Kinson's gaze wandered back to Mareth.  She was staring directly at
him, her dark eyes huge and shadowed beneath her helmet of
short-cropped black hair, her face smooth and serene.  In that instant,
he thought he was on the verge of understanding her as he had been
unable to do before.  It was something about the way she was looking at
him, in the openness of her expression, in the intensity of her gaze.
But then she smiled unexpectedly, her mouth quirking at the corners,
and her eyes shifted from his face to something she saw behind him.

When he turned to look, he found Shifter staring at him, the big moor
cat's face only inches from his own, the luminous eyes fixed on him as
if he were the strangest thing the cat had ever seen.  Kinson swallowed
the lump in his throat.  He could feel the heat of the cat's breath on
his face.  When had it come awake?  How had it gotten so close without
him noticing?
Kinson held the cat's gaze a moment longer, took a deep breath, and
turned away.

"I don't suppose you would want to come with us?"  Bremen was asking
their host.  "A journey of a few days, just long enough to see the
talisman forged?"

Cogline snorted and shook his head.  "Take your games playing
elsewhere, Bremen.  I give you the forging process and my best
wishes.
If you can make use of either, well and good.
But I belong here."

He had scribbled something on a piece of old parchment, and now he
passed it to the Druid.  "The best that science can offer," he
muttered.  "Take it."

Bremen did, stuffing it into his robes.

Cogline straightened, then looked at Kinson and Mareth in turn.
"Watch out for this old man," he warned.  There was dismay in his
eyes, as if he had suddenly discovered something that displeased him.
"He needs more looking after than he realizes.  You, Tracker, have his
ear.  Make sure he listens when he needs to.  You, girl-what is your
name?  Mareth?  You have more than his ear, don't you?"

No one spoke.  Kinson's eyes shifted to Mareth.  There was no
expression on her face, but she had gone suddenly pale.

Cogline studied her bleakly.  "Doesn't matter.  Just keep him safe from
himself.  Keep him well."

He stopped abruptly, as if deciding he had said too much.
He mumbled something they could not hear, then rose to his feet, a
loose jumble of bones and skin, a rumpled caricature of himself.

"Spend the night, and then be on your way," he muttered wearily.

He looked them over carefully, as if expecting to find something he
had missed previously, as if thinking perhaps they might be other than
who they claimed.  Then he turned and moved away.

Good night, they called after him.  But he did not respond.
He walked resolutely away from them and did not look back.

CHAPTER 19

CLOUDS SKIMMED THE EDGES of the quarter-moon, casting strange shadows
that raced across the surface of the earth like night birds ahead of
the advancing Dwarves.
It was the slow, deep hour before sunrise, when death is closest and
dreams hold sway in men's sleep.  The air was warm and still, and the
night hushed.  There was a sense of everything slowing, of time losing
half a tick in its clockwork progression, of life drifting momentarily
from its inexorable pathway so that death, for a few precious moments,
might be further delayed.

The Dwarves had slipped from the trees of the Anar in a wave of dark
forms that seemed to flow like a river.  They were several thousand
strong, come down through the Wolfsktaag out of the Pass of Jade a
dozen miles north of where the army of the Warlock Lord was encamped.
It was two days since the army had passed south of Storlock, and while
the Dwarves had watched its progress closely, they had determined to
wait until now to attack.

They eased their way down the line of the trees to where the Rabb
dropped away in a long, low swale close to a small river called the
Nunne.  It was there that the Northland army, unwisely, had chosen to
make its camp.  To be sure, there was water and grass and space to
sprawl out, but it gave away the high ground to an attacker and exposed
two flanks of the army to an enfilading strike.  The army had set watch,
but any watch was easily dispatched, and even the presence of the
roving Skull Bearers was no deterrent to men in a desperate
situation.

Risca gave them cover when they were close enough that cover
mattered.
He sent images of himself south below the Nunne to distract the winged
hunters, and when the clouds masked moon and stars completely, the
Dwarves went in.  They crept swiftly across the last mile separating
their strike force from the sleeping army, killed the sentries before
they could sound an alarm, took the high ground north and east above
the river, and attacked.  Stretched out across the ridge of the high
ground for half a mile in either direction, they used longbows and
slings, and they raked the Trolls and Gnomes and monsters of darkness
with volley after volley.  The army came awake, men screaming and
cursing, racing to put on their armor and to take up their weapons,
falling wounded and dead in midstride.  A cavalry assault was mounted
in the midst of the confusion, a doomed counterattack that was cut to
pieces as it charged up the incline from the maelstrom of the camp.

One of the Skull Bearers circled out of the dark and swept down on the
Dwarves in retaliation, claws and teeth exposed, a silent stalker.

But Risca was expecting this, his attention given over to preparing for
it, and when the Skull Bearer appeared, he let it come almost to the
earth before he struck at it with his Druid fire and flung it away,
burned and shrieking.

The strike was swift and measured.  The damage inflicted was largely
superficial and of no lasting consequence to an army of this size, so
the Dwarves did not linger.  Their primary purpose was to cause
disruption and to draw the enemy away from its intended line of
march.
In that, the Dwarves were successful.
They fled back into the trees, taking the most direct route, then
turned north again for the Pass of Jade.  The enemy was quick to give
pursuit.  A large force was mounted and gave chase, the size of the
Dwarf party having not yet been determined.  By sunrise, the pursuers
were closing on the Dwarves as they neared the mouth of the Pass of
Jade.

Everything was going exactly as Risca had planned.

"THERE," said Geften softly, pointing into the trees fronting the
pass.

Below, the last of the Dwarf strike force was filing through the pass
and dispersing into the rocks above, taking up positions next to the
men already in place, four thousand strong.
Behind them, less than a mile away, the first movements of their
pursuers could be detected in the still, deep shadows of the pre dawn
forest.  Even as he watched, Risca could see the movement widen and
spread, like a ripple from a stone thrown into the center of a still
pond.  It was a sizable force that had come after them, much too large
for them to defeat in a direct engagement, even though a large part of
the Dwarf army was assembled here.

"How long?"  he asked Geften in response.

The Tracker shrugged, a small movement, spare like all his gestures,
like the man himself, unobtrusive and restrained.
Coarse, unruly gray hair topped an oddly elongated head.  "An hour if
they stop to debate the wisdom of coming into the pass without a
plan."

Risca nodded.  "They'll stop.  They've been burned twice now."  He
smiled at the older man, a gnarled veteran of the Gnome border wars.
"Keep an eye on them.  I'll tell the king."

He abandoned his position and moved back into the rocks, climbing from
where Geften monitored their pursuers' progress.

Risca felt a wild excitement course through him, fueled by the
knowledge that a second battle lay just ahead.  The strike at the
Northland camp had only whetted his appetite.  He breathed the morning
air and felt strong and ready.  He had waited all his life for this, he
supposed.  All those years shut away at Paranor, practicing his warrior
skills, his fighting tactics, his weapons mastery.  All for this, for a
chance to stand against an enemy that would challenge him as nothing at
Paranor ever could.  It made him feel alive in a way he could not
ignore, and even the desperation of their circumstances did not lessen
the rush of excitement he felt.

He had reached the Dwarves three days earlier and gone at once to
Raybur.  Already alerted to the presence of the North land army,
already certain of its intent, the king had received him.  Risca merely
confirmed what he knew and gave further impetus to his need to act.
Raybur was a warrior king as Risca was a warrior Druid, a man whose
entire life had been spent in battle.  Like Risca, he had fought
against the Gnome tribes when he was a boy, a part of the Dwarf
struggle to prevent Gnome encroachment on those lands in the Lower and
Central Anar that the Dwarves had considered theirs for as long as
anyone could remember.  When he became king, Raybur had pursued his
cause with a single-mindedness that was frightening.  Taking his army
deep into the interior, he had pushed back the Gnomes and extended the
boundaries of his homeland until they were twice their previous size,
until the Gnomes were so far north of the Rabb and east of the Silver
River that they no longer threatened.  For the first time in centuries,
all that lay between was safe for the Dwarves to settle and inhabit.

But now the challenge was mounted anew, this time in the form of the
army that approached.  Raybur had mobilized the Dwarves in preparation
for the battle that lay ahead, the battle that everyone knew they could
not win without help, yet must fight if they were to survive.  Risca
had told them that the Elves were coming.  Bremen had charged that it
must happen, and Tay Trefenwyd, whom he would trust with his life, had
gone west to make it so.  Yet it remained for the Dwarves to buy the
time that was needed for that help to arrive.
Raybur understood.  He was close with Bremen and Courtann
Ballindarroch, and he knew both to be honorable men.  They would do
what they could.  But time was precious, and nothing could be taken for
granted.  Raybur understood that as well.  So Culhaven was evacuated-it
was there that the Northland army would come first, and the Dwarves
could not defend their home city against so massive a force.  Women,
children, and old people were sent deep into the interior of the Anar,
where they could be safely hidden away until the danger was over.  The
Dwarf army, in the meantime, went north through the Wolfsktaag to face
the enemy.

Raybur turned as Risca approached, looking away from his commanders and
advisors, from Wyrik and Banda, the eldest of his five sons, from the
charts they studied and the plans they had drawn.  "Do they come?"  he
asked quickly.

Risca nodded.  "Geften keeps watch over their progress.  He estimates
we have an hour before they strike."

Raybur nodded and beckoned the Druid to walk with him.
He was a big man, not tall, but broad and strong through the chest and
shoulders, his head huge and his features prominent, his weathered face
bearded and creased.  He had a hooked nose and shaggy brows that gave
him a slightly bestial look, but beneath his imposing exterior he was
warm and exuberant and quick to laugh.  Older than Risca by fifteen
years, he was nevertheless as physically imposing as the Druid and more
than a match for him in an even contest.  The two were very close, more
so in some ways than with their own families, for they shared common
beliefs and experiences and had come from hard lives and close escapes
to live as long as they had.

"Tell me again how you will make this happen," the king directed,
putting his arm around Risca and steering him away from the others.

',You know that already," Risca responded with a snort.  The plan was
theirs, devised by Risca and approved by the king, and while they had
shared it in general with the others, they had kept the specifics to
themselves.

"Tell it to me anyway."  The gruff face glanced at him, then looked
away.  "Humor me.  I am your king."

Risca nodded, smiling.  "The Trolls and Gnomes and what have you will
converge on the pass.  We will try to stop them from entering.  We will
make a good show of it, then fall back, apparently beaten.  We will
delay them through the mountains for the next day or so, slowing but
not stopping them.  In the meantime, they will have moved the rest of
their army south to the Silver River.  Dwarves will flee at their
approach.  They will find Culhaven abandoned.  They will discover that
no one challenges them.  They will think that the whole of the Dwarf
army must be fighting in the Wolfsktaag."

"Which is not far from the truth," Raybur grunted, rubbing at his beard
with one massive hand.

"Which is not far from the truth," Risca echoed.  "Sensing victory,
because they know the geography of these mountains, they will seize the
Pass of Noose and wait for their comrades to drive us south through the
valleys into their arms.  The Gnomes will have assured them that there
are only two ways out of the Wolfsktaag-through the Pass of Jade north
and the Pass of Noose south.  If the Dwarf army is trapped between the
two, they have no chance of escape."

Raybur nodded, worrying his upper lip and the edges of his mustache
with his strong teeth.  "But if they advance on us too quickly or too
far .  . ."

"They won't," Risca cut him short.  "We won't let them.  Be sides, they
will not take that kind of chance.  They will be cautious.  They will
worry that we will find a way around them if they proceed too
quickly.
It will be easier to let us come to them.  They will wait until they
see us, and then strike."

They moved to a flat shelf of rock and sat down side by side, staring
off into the interior of the mountains.  The day was Sunny and bright,
but the Wolfsktaag, away from the entrance to the pass and deep into
the valleys and ridges that crisscrossed its vast interior, was
shrouded with mist.

"it is a good plan," said Raybur finally.

"It is the best we could devise," Risca amended.  "Bremen might do
better if he were here."

"He'll come to us soon enough," Raybur declared softly.
"And the Elves with him.  Then we'll have this invader in a place not
so much to his liking."

Risca nodded wordlessly, but he was thinking back to his encounter with
Brona not so many nights earlier, remembering what he had felt when he
realized the extent of the Warlock Lord's power, remembering how the
other had paralyzed him, had almost had him in his grasp.  Such a
monster would not be easily overcome, no matter the size or strength of
the force sent against him.  This was more than a war of weapons and
men; it was a war of magic.  In such a war, the Dwarves were at a
decided disadvantage unless Bremen's vision of a talisman could be
brought to pass.

He wondered where the old man was now.  He wondered how many of his
four visions were taking shape.

"The Skull Bearers will try to spy us out," Raybur mused.

Risca pursed his lips and considered.  "They will try, but the
Wolfsktaag will not be friendly to them.  Nor will it make any
difference what they see.  By the time they realize what we have done,
it will be too late."


The king shifted.  "They will come for you," he said suddenly, and
looked at the Druid.  "They know you are their greatest threat-their
only threat besides Bremen and Tay Trefenwyd.  If they kill you, we
have no magic to protect us."

Risca shrugged and smiled.  "Then you had better take good care of me,
my king."

IT TOOK THE NORTHLANDERS longer than Geften had estimated to launch
their attack, but it was fierce when it came.  The Pass of Jade was
broad where it opened to the eastern Anar, then narrowed abruptly at
the twin peaks that formed its entrance into the Wolfsktaag.  Having
determined beforehand that Dwarf resistance would be strong, the army
of the Warlock Lord threw the whole of its force into the gap, intent
on breaking through on the first try.  Against a less well prepared
defender, they would have succeeded.  But the Dwarves had held the
passes of the Wolfsktaag for years against Gnome raiders and in doing
so had learned a trick or two.  The size of the Northland force was
already negated to some extent by the narrowness of the pass and the
ruggedness of the terrain.  The Dwarves did not try to block the
Northland charge, but assailed it from the protection of the slopes.
Pits had been dug into the winding floor.
Massive boulders were tumbled from above and spiked barricades swung
into place.  Arrows and spears rained down.  Hundreds of attackers
died in the first rush.  The Trolls were particularly determined, huge
and strong and armored against the missiles sent to kill them.  But
they were ponderous and slow, and many fell into the pits or were
crushed by the boulders.  Still they advanced.

They were stopped finally at the far end of the pass.  Raybur had
caused a log wall to be built at the back of a trench filled with dead
wood, and on the Northlanders' rush he had the whole of it fired.
Pressed forward by those who followed and too heavy themselves to climb
free, the Trolls died where they stood, burned to the bone.  The
screams and the stench of their ruined flesh filled the air, and the
attack broke off.

They came again at midday, less reckless this time, and again they were
beaten back.  They attacked once more at nightfall.  Each time the
Dwarves were forced a little deeper into the pass.  Positioned on both
sides of the draw, Raybur and his sons directed the Dwarf defense,
holding as long as they reasonably could before withdrawing, giving
ground grudgingly, but judiciously, so that no more lives were lost
than necessary.
Raybur commanded the left flank in the company of Geften while Wyrik
and Fleer commanded the right.  Risca was left to choose his own
ground.  The Dwarves fought bravely, pressed at every turn by a force
at least three times their size, seasoned from countless battles.  No
winged hunters or creatures of the netherworld came at them in
daylight, so Risca did not waste his magic in support of their
defense.
The plan, after all, was not to win the battle.  The plan was to lose
it as slowly as possible.

Nightfall brought a break in the hostilities and a new quiet to the
mountains.  Mist slipped down from the higher elevations in the slow
melting of the light to close about defender and at tacker alike.
The silence grew pervasive as vision narrowed and shortened, and small
breezes, damp and cloying, slithered out of the rocks to caress and
tease.  There were living things in the touch of those breezes,
invisible and shapeless, but as certain as midnight.  They were
creatures of the Wolfsktaag, beings formed of magic as old as time and
as needful as men's souls.
The Dwarves knew of them and were wary of their intent.  They were
forerunners of things larger and more powerful still and not to be
listened to.  They whispered lies and false promises, rendered dreams
and treacherous visions, and to heed them in any way was to invite
death.  The Dwarves understood this.
Knowledge was what protected them.

Not so with the Gnomes who camped opposite them at the head of the
pass.  The Gnomes were terrified of these mountains and the things
that dwelled within.  Superstitious and pagan, wary of all magic and
particularly of the sort that resided here, they would have preferred
to avoid the Wolfsktaag entirely.  There were gods here to be prayed
to and spirits to be appeased.  This was sacred ground.  But the power
of the War lock Lord and his dark followers frightened them even more,
so they closed ranks with the more stolid and less impressionable
Trolls.  But they did so reluctantly and with little heart, and the
Dwarves made ready to use their fear against them.

As Risca had foreseen, the Northland army mounted a new attack several
hours before dawn, when darkness and brume still masked its
movements.
They came silently and in force, massing on the floor of the pass and
along its higher slopes and ridges, intent on sweeping over the Dwarves
through sheer strength of numbers.  But Raybur had withdrawn his line
of defense a hundred yards farther back into the pass from where the
battle had ended at dusk.  Between the two lines, the Dwarves had built
piles of green wood and new leaves and left them ready to light.  On
the floor of the pass, fresh barricades and trenches had been readied,
staggered at intervals between the fires.
When the Northlanders reached the expected Dwarf line of defense, they
found the position deserted.  Had the Dwarves abandoned the pass?  Had
they fallen back under cover of darkness?  Momentarily confused, they
hesitated, milling about as their leaders deliberated.  Finally, they
started forward once more.  But by now the Dwarves were alerted to the
attack.  Risca used his magic to light the fires that dotted the slopes
and floor of the pass, and suddenly the Northlanders found themselves
engulfed by a blanket of smoke that choked and blinded.  Eyes tearing,
throats clogging, they came doggedly on.

Then Risca sent the wraiths.  He created some from magic, lured some
from the mist, and sent all into the smoke to play.
Things of tooth and claw, of red maw and black eye, of fears real and
imagined, the wraiths closed on the gasping, half-blind Northlanders.
The Gnomes went mad, shrieking in terror.
Nothing would hold them against this.  They broke ranks and ran.
Now the Dwarves struck, slingers, throwers, and bowmen sending their
deadly missiles into the heart of the attacking force.  Steadily they
pushed the attackers back.  The assault stalled and fell apart as men
died at every turn.  By dawn, the pass belonged to the Dwarves once
more.

The Northlanders attacked again the next day, refusing to give up,
determined to break through.  Their losses were frightful, but the
Dwarves were losing men as well, and they had
fewer lives to spare.  By midafternoon, Raybur had begun making
preparations to withdraw.  Two days was long enough to stand against
this army.  Now it was time to retreat a bit, to draw the enemy on.
They waited until nightfall, until darkness had closed down about them
once again.  Then they fired a last trench of deadwood topped with
leaves and green saplings so that the smoke would mask their movements
and slipped away.

Risca stayed behind to make certain they were not followed too
quickly.
With a small band of Dwarf Hunters, he defended the narrowest point of
the deep pass against a tentative assault before falling back with the
others.  Once a Skull Bearer showed itself, trying to wing beneath the
layers of mist and smoke, but Risca countered with the Druid fire and
flung it away.

They marched all night after that, traveling deep into the mountains.
Geften led them, a veteran of countless expeditions, familiar with the
canyons and defiles, ridges and drops, knowing where to go and how to
get there.  They avoided the dark, narrow places where the monsters
dwelled, the things that had survived since ancient times and lent
substance to the superstitions of the Gnomes.  They kept to the high
open ground where possible, sufficiently concealed by darkness and mist
that they remained hidden from their pursuers.  The Northland army
would have scouts as well, but they would be Gnomes, and the Gnomes
would be cautious.  Raybur's force moved swiftly and deliberately.

When the army of the Warlock Lord found them, it would again be on
ground of their choosing.

By the following day, after the Dwarves had stopped to rest for several
hours at dawn and were again on the march, a messenger arrived from
the smaller force that defended the Pass of Noose at the south end of
the mountains.  The balance of the army of the Warlock Lord had
arrived, pressing inward from the lower end of the Rabb to set camp.
An attack would probably be launched by nightfall.  The Dwarves could
hold the pass for at least a day before yielding.  Raybur looked at
Risca and smiled.  A day would be long enough.

They let the Northland army coming down from the Pass of Jade catch up
to them that afternoon, when the sun was already gone behind the peaks
and the mist was beginning to creep down out of the higher elevations
like vines in search of light.
They waited in a canyon where the floor rose steeply through a maze of
giant rocks and treacherous drops, and attacked as the Northlanders
climbed out of the exposed bowl.  They held their ground just long
enough to frustrate the advance, then fell back once more.
Darkness descended, and their pursuers were forced to halt for the
night, unable to retaliate.

By dawn, the Dwarves were gone.  The Northlanders pressed on, anxious
to end this game of cat and mouse.  But the Dwarves surprised them
again at midday, this time leading them into a blind pass, then tearing
at their exposed flanks as they sought to withdraw.  By the time the
Northlanders had recovered, the Dwarves had disappeared once more.
All day it went on, a series of strikes and withdrawals, the smaller
force taunting and humiliating the larger.  But the south end of the
mountains was drawing near, and the Northlanders, furious at their
inability to close with the Dwarves, began to take heart from the fact
that their quarry was running out of places to hide.

The contest had grown serious.  One false step and the Dwarves would be
finished.  Messengers raced back and forth between those who harassed
the enemy coming down out of the north and those who still held the
Pass of Noose south.
Timing was important.  The enemy south pressed hard to claim the Pass
of Noose, but the Dwarves held firm.  The Pass of Noose was more easily
defended and difficult to take, no matter the size of the force at
either end.  But the Dwarves would yield it up at dawn and fall back,
slowly, deliberately, letting the Northlanders believe they had
prevailed.  The army of the War lock Lord would claim the pass and then
wait for their comrades to drive the overmatched and beleaguered
Dwarves onto their spearpoints.

Dawn arrived, and while one army of Northlanders occupied the Pass of
Noose, the other drove relentlessly south.  The Dwarves, caught
between, had nowhere left to run.

ALL THAT DAY, Raybur's army fought to slow the southward advance.
The Dwarf King used every tactic he had mastered in thirty years of
Gnome warfare, hammering at the invaders when there was opportunity,
creating opportunity when none presented itself.  He divided his army
in thirds, giving the largest of the three over to his generals to
command so that they might provide an obvious target for the enemy to
pursue.  The two smaller companies, one commanded by himself, one by
his eldest son Wyrik, became pincers that harried the Northlanders at
every turn.  Working in unison, they drew the enemy first one way and
then the other.  When a flank was exposed by one, the second would be
quick to strike.  The Dwarves twisted and wound about the larger army
with maddening elusiveness, refusing to be pinned down, pressing the
attack at every turn.

By nightfall, they were exhausted.  Worse, the Dwarves from the north
had been backed up against those from the south.
The two joined and became one, both having retreated as far as they
could, and suddenly there was no place left for either to go.
Night and mist shrouded them sufficiently that running them to ground
should have been postponed until morning.  But instead, the hunt went
on, in large part because the Northlanders were too angry and
frustrated to wait.  The Pass of Noose was only a few miles farther
on.
The Dwarves were trapped, be reft of room to maneuver or hide, and now,
finally, the North landers were certain that their superior force would
be able to exact a long-overdue retribution.

As night descended and the brume thickened along the last few miles of
the valley into which the Dwarves had withdrawn, Raybur dispatched
scouts to give warning of any enemy approach.  Time was running out,
and they must act quickly now.
Geften was called, and the first of the Dwarf defenders prepared for
the escape that had been intended from the beginning.  The escape would
commence under cover of darkness and be finished by midnight.
It marked the culmination of a plan the king had settled on with Risca
when the Druid had first returned from Paranor, a plan devised from
knowledge possessed only by the Dwarves.  Unknown to any but them,
there was a third way out of the mountains.  Close to where they were
gathered, not far from the more accessible Pass of Noose, there were a
series of connecting defiles, tunnels, and ledges that twisted and
wound east out of the Wolfsktaag into the forests of the central
Anar.
Geften himself had discovered this hidden passage, explored it with a
handful of others, and reported it to Raybur some eight years past.  It
was knowledge carefully protected and kept secret.  A select number of
Dwarves had used the passage now and again to make sure it was kept
open, memorizing its twists and turns, but no others were shown the
way.  Risca had learned about it from Raybur on a visit home several
years ago, the Dwarf King sharing the secret with the one man who was
as close to him as his sons.  Risca had recalled it when the Northland
army had come east, and his plan had taken shape.

Now the Dwarves set the plan in motion.  Slowly they began to reduce
their numbers, siphoning off their strength in a long, steady line that
withdrew east into the mountains, following the escape route
meticulously laid out by Geften.  The Northlanders approached the head
of the valley, and the scouts began to report back.  Yet the most
dangerous part of the scheme remained.  The Northlanders must be
delayed until the Dwarves were safely away.  With Risca accompanying
him, Raybur took a small band of twenty volunteers north.  They placed
themselves in a jumble of rocks that overlooked the valley's broad
passage in, and when the first of the Warlock Lord's army appeared,
they attacked.

It was a precise, momentary strike, intended only to disrupt and
confuse, for the Dwarves were vastly outnumbered.  They used bows from
the cover of the rocks, firing their arrows just long enough to draw
attention to themselves before falling back.  Even so, escape was
difficult.  The Northlanders came after them, furious.  It was dark
and treacherous in the rocks, a maze of jagged edges and deep crevices,
and the light, as allways in the Wolfsktaag, was poor.  Mist curled
down out of the taller peaks, masking everything on the valley floor.
More familiar with the terrain than their pursuers, the Dwarves
slipped quickly through the maze, but the Northlanders were every
where, swarming over the rocks.  Some of the defenders were
overtaken.
Some turned the wrong way.  All of these were killed.
The fighting was ferocious.  Risca used his magic, sending Druid fire
into the midst of the hunters, chasing them back.  A handful of the
netherworld grotesques hove into view, lurching mindlessly after the
scrambling Dwarves, and Risca was forced to stand long enough to throw
them back as well.

They nearly had him then.  They closed on him from three sides, drawn
by the flare of his Druid fire.  Weapons flew, and dark things launched
themselves at him and tried to drag him down.  He fought with fury and
exhilaration, alive as he could not otherwise be, a warrior in his
element.  He was strong and quick, and he would not be overpowered.
He threw back his at tackers, fought off their strikes, used the Druid
magic to shield his movements, and escaped them.

Then he was at the back side of the maze and racing after the last of
the Dwarves.  Their force had been halved, and those who remained were
bloodied and exhausted.  Raybur lingered until Risca caught up,
grim-faced and sweating in the faint light.
The battle-axe he carried had one blade shattered and was covered in
blood, 

"We'll have to hurry," he warned, lumbering forward.
"They're almost on top of us."

Risca nodded.  Spears and arrows flew at them from out of the rocks
below.  They charged up the valley slope, hearing the cries of the
Northlanders chase after.  Another of the Dwarves went down in front of
them, an arrow in his throat.  There were only a handful left of the
twenty who had come.  Risca whirled as he sensed something sweep out of
the skies and sent a bolt of fire after one of the winged hunters as it
swooped hurriedly away.  The mist was growing thicker now.  If they
could stay clear of their pursuers for a few more minutes, they would
lose them.

And so they did, pushing on until they were past exhaustion and running
on determination alone.  Eight in all, the last of the Dwarves reached
the gathering place of the others, deserted now save for Geften.
Wordlessly, they hastened after the anxious Tracker as he led them
into the hills and the peaks beyond.

Behind them, the Northlanders swarmed into the valley, crashing through
trees and brush, howling in fury.  Somewhere the Dwarves were hidden
and trapped.  Soon they would be found.  The hunt went on, moving
farther south toward the Pass of Noose.  With luck, Risca thought, the
two halves of the War lock Lord's army would run up against each other
in the mist and dark and each would think the other was their quarry.
With luck, each would kill large numbers of the other before they
discovered their mistake.

He moved up into the boulders that marked the beginning of the high
range.  They would not be followed here, not in this darkness, and by
morning they would have passed the point where their tracks could be
found.

Raybur dropped back and clapped a congratulatory hand on his friend's
broad shoulder.  Risca smiled at the king, but inwardly he felt cold
and hard.  He had measured the size of the army that hunted them.  He
had judged the nature of the things that commanded it.  Yes, the
Dwarves had escaped this time.
They had tricked the Northlanders into a prolonged and futile hunt,
delayed their advance, and lived to fight another day.

But it would be a day of reckoning when it came.

And it would come, Risca feared, all too soon.

CHAPTER 20

RAIN WAS FALLING in Arborlon, a slow, steady downpour that draped the city in a
curtain of shimmering damp and hazy gray.  It was midafternoon.  The
rain had begun at dawn and now, more than nine hours later, showed no
signs of lessening.  Jerle Shannara watched it from the seclusion of
the king's summer home, his current retreat, his present hideaway.  He
watched it spatter on the windowpanes, on the walkways, in the hundreds
of puddles it had already formed.  He watched it transform the trees of
the forest, turning their trunks a silky black and their leaves a
vibrant green.  It seemed to him, in his despondency, that if he
watched it long and hard enough, it would transform him as well.

His mood was foul.  It had been so since his return to the city three
days earlier.  He had come home with the remnant of his battered
company, with Preia Starle, Vree Erreden, and the Elven Hunters Obann
and Rusk.  He had carried back the Black Elfstone and the body of Tay
Trefenwyd.  He had brought no joy with him and found none waiting.  In
his absence, Courtann Ballindarroch had died of his wounds.  His son,
Alyten, had as sumed the throne, his first order of business to sally
forth on an expedition dedicated to tracking down his father's killers.
Madness.  But no one had stopped him.  Jerle was disgusted.  It was the
act of a fool, and he was afraid that the Elves had inherited a fool
for a king.  Either that, or the Elves once again had no king at all.
For Alyten Ballindarroch had departed Arborlon a week earlier, and
there had been no word of him since.

He stood in the silence and stared out the window at the rain, at the
space between the falling drops, at the grayness, at nothing at all.
His gaze was empty.  The summerhouse was empty as well-just him, lone
in the silence with his thoughts.
Not pleasant company for anyone.  His thoughts haunted him.
The loss of Tay was staggering, more painful than he could have
imagined, deeper than he would let himself admit.  Tay Trefenwyd had
been his best and closest friend all his life.  No matter the choices
they had made, no matter the length of their occupational separations,
no matter the events that had trans formed their lives, that friendship
had endured.  That Tay had become a Druid while Jerle had become
Captain of the Home Guard and then Court Advisor to the king had
altered nothing.
When Tay had come home from Paranor this final time, when Jerle had
first seen his friend riding up the roadway to Arborlon, it was as if
only a few moments had passed since last they had parted, as if time
meant nothing.  Now Tay was gone, his life given so that his friends
and companions could live, so that the Black Elfstone could be brought
safely to Arborlon.

The Black Elfstone.  The killing weapon.  A dark rage surged through
Jerle Shannara as he thought of the cursed talisman.
The cost of keeping the Elfstone had been his friend's life, and he
still had no concept of its purpose.  For what use was it in tended?
What use, that he could measure its worth against the loss of his
dearest friend?

He had no answer.  He had done what he must.  He had carried the
Elfstone back to Arborlon, keeping it from falling into the hands of
the Warlock Lord, thinking all the way that it would be better if he
were to rid himself of the magic, if he were to drop it down the
deepest, darkest crevice he could find.
He might have done so if he had been alone, so intense was his anger
and frustration at the loss of Tay.  But Preia and Vree Erreden
accompanied him, and the care of the Stone had been given over to them
as well.  So he had carried it home as Tay had wanted prepared to
relinquish all claim to it the moment he arrived.

But fate worked against him in this as well.  Courtann Ballindarroch
was dead, and his successor son was off on a fool's mission.  To whom,
then, should he give the Elfstone?  Not to the Elven High Council, a
clutch of ineffectual, bickering old men who lacked foresight and
reason, and were concerned mostly with protecting themselves now that
Courtann was dead.  Not to Alyten, who was absent in any case-the
Elfstone had never been intended for him.  Bremen then, but the Druid
had not yet arrived in Arborlon-if he was to arrive at all.

So on Preia's advice and with Vree Erreden's concurrence, these two the
only ones he could consult on the matter, he hid the Black Elfstone
deep in the catacombs of the palace cellars, down where no one could
ever find it without his help, away from the prying eyes and curious
minds that might attempt to unlock its power.  Jerle, Preia, and the
locat understood the danger of the Elfstone as no other could.
They had seen what the Elfstone's dark magic could do.  They had
witnessed firsthand the extent of its power.  All those men, human and
inhuman alike, burned to ash in the blink of an eye.  Tay Trefenwyd,
ruined by the backlash despite his Druid defenses.  Such power was
anathema.  Such power was black and witless and should be locked away
forever.

I hope it was worth your life, Tay, Jerle Shannara thought bleakly.
But I cannot conceive that it was.

The chill of the rain worked through him, causing his bones to ache.
The fire, the sole source of heat for the large gathering room, was
dying in the hearth behind him, and he walked over to add a few more
logs.  He stared down into the rising flames when he had done so,
wondering at the vagaries of circum stance and fate.  So much had been
lost these past few weeks.
What purpose had these losses served?  Where would it all culminate?
In what cause?  Jerle shook his head and brushed back his blond hair.
Philosophical questions only confused him.  He was a warrior, and what
he understood best was what he could strike out against.  Where was the
hard substance of this matter to be found?
Where was its flesh and blood?  He felt ruined, battered without and
empty within.  The rain and the gray suited him.  He was come back to
nothing, to no purpose, to no recognizable future, to great loss and
pain.

On the day of his return, he had gone to Tay's parents and Kira to tell
them of his death.  He would have it no other way.
Tay's parents, old and easily confused, had accepted the news stoically
and with few tears, seeing with the approach of the end of their own
lives the inevitability and capriciousness of death.  But Kira had been
devastated.  She had hung on Jerle as she cried, clutching him in
desperation, seeking strength he did not have to give.
He held her, thinking she was as lost to him as her brother.  She clung
to him, a crumpled bit of flesh and bone and cloth, as light as air and
as insubstantial, sobbing and shaking, and he thought in that moment
that their grief for Tay was all they would ever share again.

He turned from the fire and stared out the window once more.  Gray and
damp, the day wore on, and nothing of its passing gave hope.

The front door opened and closed, a cloak was removed and hung, and
Preia Starle walked into the room.  Dampness glistened on her face and
hands, on the smooth, brown skin still marred by the cuts and bruises
of their journey to the Breakline.
She brushed at the water that beaded on her curly, cinnamon hair,
flicking it away.  Honey-brown eyes studied him, as if surprised by
what they saw.

"They want to make you king," she declared quietly.

He stared at her.  "Who?"

"All of them.  The High Council, the king's advisors, the people on the
streets, the Home Guard, the army, everyone."
She smiled wanly.  "You are their only hope, they say.  Alyten is too
unreliable, too reckless for the job.  He has no experience.
He has no skills.  It doesn't matter that he is already king, they want
him gone."

"But two grandchildren survive after him!  What of them?"


"Babies, barely grown old enough to walk.  Besides, the Elven people
don't want children sitting on the Ballindarroch throne.  They want
you."

He shook his head in disbelief.  "They haven't the right to make that
decision.  No one has."

"You do," she said.

She crossed to the fire, her slim, supple body catlike in the near
gloom, all grace and efficiency.  Jerle marveled at the ease with which
she moved.  He marveled at her composure.  He was
awed by the depth of her strength, even now, in the face of all that
had happened.  She stood before the fire, rubbing her hands to warm
them.  After a moment she stopped and just stared.

"I heard his voice today," she said.  "On the streets.  Tay's voice.
He was calling after me, speaking my name.  I heard it clearly.
I turned, so eager to find him I collided with a man following me.  I
pushed past him, ignoring what he said, looking for Tay."  She shook
her head slowly.  "But he wasn't there.  I only imagined it."

Her voice died away in a whisper.  She did not turn.

"I still can't believe he's gone," Jerle said after a moment.  "I keep
thinking that it's a mistake, that he's out there and any moment he
will walk through the door."

He looked off into the shadows of the front entry.  "I don't want to be
king.  I want Tay to be alive again.  I want everything back the way it
was."

She nodded wordlessly and watched the fire some more.
They could hear the patter of the rain on the roof and against the
window glass.  They could hear the whisper of the wind.

Then Preia turned and walked over to him.  She stood be fore him,
motionless.  He could not read the look she gave him.
It was filled with so many emotions that it lacked definition.
"Do you love me?"  she asked directly, staring into his eyes.

He was so surprised by the question, so caught off guard, that he could
not manage an answer.  He just stared at her, openmouthed.

She smiled, laying claim to something that had eluded him.
Her eyes filled with tears.  "Did you know that Tay was in love with
me?"


He shook his head slowly, stunned.  "No."

"For as long as I can remember."  She paused.  'Just as you've always
been in love with Kira."  She reached up quickly and put a finger to
his lips.  "No, let me finish.  This needs to be said.  Tay was in love
with me, but he would never have done anything about it.
He wouldn't even speak of it.  His sense of loyalty to you was so
strong that he couldn't make himself.  He knew I was pledged to you,
and even though he was uncertain of your own feelings, he did nothing
to interfere.  He believed that you loved me and would marry me, and he
would not jeopardize his relationship with either of us to change
that.  He knew of Kira, but he knew as well that she was not right for
you-even when you did not."

She came a step closer.  The tears were beginning to run down her
cheeks now, but she ignored them.  "That was a side of Tay Trefenwyd
you never saw.  You didn't see it because you didn't look.  He was a
complex man, just as you are.  Neither of you understood the other as
clearly as you thought.  You were each the shadow of the other, but as
different in some ways as the shadow is from the flesh.  I know that
difference.  I have allways known."

She swallowed.  "Now you have to face up to it as well.
And to what it means to be alive when your shadow is dead.
Tay is gone, Jerle.  We remain.  What is to become of us?  We have to
decide.  Tay loved me, but he is dead.  Do you love me as well?  Do you
love me as strongly?  Or will Kira always be between us?"

"Kira is married," he said softly, his voice breaking.

"Kira is alive.  Life breeds hope.  If you want her badly enough,
perhaps you can find a way to have her.  But you can not have both of
us.  I have lost one of the two most important men in my life.  I lost
him without ever taking time to speak with him as I am speaking with
you.  I will not let that happen a second time."

She paused, uncomfortable with what she was about to say, but refusing
to look away.  "I am going to tell you something.
If Tay had asked me to choose between you, I might have chosen him."

There was an endless silence between them.  Their eyes locked and
held. They stood in the center of the room, motionless.  The fire in the
hearth crackled softly and the rain beat down.  The shadows in the room
had begun to lengthen with the approach of nightfall.

"I do not want to lose you," Jerle said quietly.


Preia did not respond.  She was waiting to hear more.

"I did love Kira once," he admitted.  "I love her still, I suppose.
But it's not the same as it was.  I know I have lost her, and I no
longer mourn that loss.  I haven't for years.  I care for her.
I think of her when I think of Tay and our childhood.  She was part of
that, and I would be foolish if I tried to pretend that it was
otherwise."

He took a deep breath.  "You asked me if I loved you.  I do.
I haven't really thought about it in any deliberate way-I just always
accepted it.  I suppose I believed that you would always be there and
so dismissed any further consideration as unnecessary.  Why examine
something that was so obvious?  There seemed no need to do so.
But I was wrong.  I see that.  I took you for granted without even
realizing it.  I thought that what we shared was sufficient as it
was. I didn't allow for change or doubts or complacency.

"But I have lost Tay and a large part of myself with him.  I have lost
direction and purpose.  I am come to the end of a road I have traveled
for a long time and find no way to turn.  When you ask if I love you, I
am faced with the fact that loving you is perhaps all I have left.  It
is no small thing, no consolation to measure against my pain.  It is
much more than that.  I feel foolish saying this.  It is the one real
truth I can acknowledge.  It means more than anything else in my life.
Tay let me discover this by dying.  It is a high cost to pay, but there it is."

His big hands reached out and fastened gently on her shoulders.
"I do love you, Preia."

"Do you?"  she asked quietly.

He felt a vast distance open between them as she spoke the words.
He felt an immense weight settle on his shoulders.  He stood awkwardly
in front of her, unable to think of what else he could do.  His size
and strength had always been a source of reassurance, but with Preia
they seemed to work against him.

"Yes, Preia," he said finally.  "I do.  I love you as much as I have
ever loved anyone.  I don't know what else to say.  This, I guess-that
I hope you still love me."

She said nothing even then, standing there motionless be fore him,
looking into his eyes.  The tears had stopped, but her face was
streaked and damp.  A tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth.  "I
have never stopped loving you," she whispered.

She stepped forward into his arms and let him hold her.  After a
while, she held him back.

THEY WERE SITTING TOGETHER before the fire when Vree Erreden appeared
several hours later.  It was dark by then, the last of the daylight
faded, the rain lessened to a drizzle that fell with out sound on the
already drenched woodlands.  A silence had fallen across the weary
city, and lights had begun to appear in the windows of buildings barely
glimpsed through gaps in the sagging, water-laden boughs of the trees.
No one lived in the palace now, the building empty while repairs were
made and a ruler determined, and only the summerhouse saw life within
the grounds.  Even so, the Home Guard watched over Jerle Shannara, come
to protect one of their own as much as to protect a member of the royal
family and a rumored king-to-be.

The Guard stopped Vree Erreden three times before he reached the door
to the summerhouse, letting him pass then only because Jerle had made
certain that the locat was to be given free access to him at all times.
It was strange how their relationship had changed.  They had little in
common, and Tay's death might easily have ended any pretense at
friendship between them, for the Druid Elf was the source of any
bonding they had forged on their journey west.  With Tay dead, they
might have drifted apart again, each suspicious and disdainful of the
other, each drawing back into himself.

But that had not happened.  Perhaps it was their unspoken, individual
resolve that it should not happen, that they owed Tay this much.
Perhaps it was a common need that bound them, a need to understand the
terrible events of their journey, a need to make something good come
out of their friend's death.  Tay had sacrificed himself for
them-shouldn't they put aside their differences for his sake?  They
talked of many things on their return-of what their friend had done, of
the importance he attached to carrying out Bremen's charge, of the
deadly nature of the Black Elfstone, of its place in the greater scheme
of things, of the darkening shadow of the Warlock Lord hanging over
them all.  With Preia Starle, they talked of what Tay had hoped to
accomplish and how they must see that his goals were realized-to see
that the Black Elfstone reached Bremen and that the Elven army was
dispatched in aid of the Dwarves.  Their thoughts were not of
themselves, but of the greater world and the danger that threatened
it.

Two nights out of Arborlon on their return from the Breakline, Jerle
asked the locat if he would reveal to him any visions or whisperings
hereafter that might affect what they had agreed to try to accomplish.
It was not easy for him to ask, and Vree Erreden knew it.
The locat said, after a few moments' reflection, that he would-that he
would do anything in his power to help.  He would like, in fact, to
offer his services to Jerle personally, if the other thought he might
have use of them.  Jerle accepted the offer.  They shook hands to seal
their arrangement and, though they would not say so, the beginnings of
their friendship.

So here was the locat come for the first time in two days, stepping in
out of the rain like a beaten creature, his worn cloak soaked clear
through, his small, thin form hunched and shivering.
Preia met him at the door, took his cloak away and led him to the fire
so that he might warm himself.  Jerle poured a measure of strong ale
and gave it to him.  Preia wrapped him in a blanket.  Vree Erreden
accepted all with muttered thanks and furtive looks.  His eyes were
intense.  He had come to them for a reason.

"I have something to tell you," he said to Jerle after the chill had
left him sufficiently that he could speak without shaking.  "I have had
a vision, and it involves you."

Jerle nodded.  "What have you seen?"

The locat rubbed his hands together, then drank some of the ale, a few
sips only.  His face was pinched and his eyes deep-set and hollow, as
if he hadn't been sleeping well.  But he had looked haunted ever since
their return from the Breakline.
The events in the Chew Magna had devastated his psyche.  The fortress
and its occupants had attacked him mercilessly, tried to crush him so
that he would be of no use to Tay Trefenwyd, whom they had intended for
their own.  They had failed, but the damage to the locat from their
attack was evident.

"When Tay first came to me to solicit my help in his search for the
Black Elfstone, I used my skills to look into his mind."
Vree Erreden shifted suddenly to face the other, his gaze unexpectedly
steady.  "It was a way to discover quickly and accurately what it was
that he believed I might find.  I did not tell him what I was doing, I
did not want him to shade any truths that he possessed.

"What I discovered was more than what I sought.  He had been told by
the Druid Bremen of four visions.  One was of the Chew Magna and the
Black Elfstone.  This was the one that I was supposed to see.  But I
saw the others as well.  I saw the de struction at Paranor as Bremen
searched for a medallion that hung from a chain.  I saw the Druid again
at a dark lake .  . ."

He trailed off, then brushed aside what he was about to say with a
quick, anxious wave of his hand.  "Never mind either of those.  It is
the last that matters."

He paused, distracted.  "I have heard talk.  The Elves would make you
king.  They would be done with Alyten and the grandchildren and crown
you."

"Just talk, nothing more," Jerle interjected quickly.

Vree Erreden folded into himself beneath his robes.  "I don't think
so."  He let the words hang.

Preia edged forward beside Jerle.  "What have you seen, Vree?  Is
Alyten Ballindarroch dead?"

The locat shook his head.  "I don't know.  I wasn't shown that.  I was
shown something else.  But it impacts on the matter of kingship."
He took a deep breath.  "The vision, Bremen's last, that I glimpsed
within Tay's memory, was of a man standing on a battlefield armed with
a sword.  The sword was a talisman, a powerful magic.  The Eilt Druin's
image of a hand holding forth a burning torch was graven on the pommel
of the sword, clearly revealed.  Across from the man was a wraith
cloaked all in black, featureless and impenetrable save for eyes that
were pinpricks of red fire.  The man and the wraith were engaged in
mortal combat."

He sipped again at his ale, and now his gaze dropped away.
"I only had a single glimpse of this vision, and I did not pay it much
mind.  It was not important then.  It gave credence to the rest of what
Tay told me of his quest, nothing more.  I had not really thought about
it again until now."

The dark eyes lifted.  "Today, I read my maps before the fire.
The warmth of the flames and the rain falling outside in steady cadence
caused me to doze, and as I slept I had a vision.  It was sudden,
intense, and unexpected.  This is unusual, because mostly the visions,
the hunches, the indicators of what is lost and might be found, are
slower and more gentle in their coming.  But this vision was sharp, and
I recognized it immediately.
It was Bremen's vision of the man and the wraith on the battle field.
But this time I knew them.  The wraith was the Warlock Lord.
The man, Jerle Shannara, was you."

Jerle wanted to laugh.  For some reason, this struck him as 
ridiculous.  Perhaps it was the impossibility of the idea.  Perhaps it
was his inability to believe that Tay had not recognized him in the
vision, yet Vree Erreden had.  Perhaps it was simply a reaction to the
twinge of misgiving he felt on hearing the locat's words.

"There is more."  The locat did not give him time to think.
"The sword you carried bore the emblem of the medallion that Bremen
carried in the vision of Paranor destroyed.  The medallion is called
the Eilt Druin.  It is the symbol of office of the High Druids of
Paranor.  Its magic is very powerful.  The sword was the weapon forged
to destroy Brona, and the Eilt Druin was made a part of that weapon.  No
one told me these things, you understand, No one said they were so.  I
simply knew them to be true.  just as I knew, seeing you standing on
that battlefield for that single moment in time, that you had become
King of the Elves."

"No."  Jerle shook his head stubbornly.  "You are mistaken."

The locat faced him and did not look away.

"Did you see my face?"

"I did not need to see your face," Vree Erreden declared softly.
"Or hear your voice.  Or look about to see if others followed you as
they would their king.  It was you."

"Then the vision itself is false.  It must be!"  Jerle looked to Preia
for help, but her response to his gaze was deliberate silence.
His fists knotted angrily.  "I do not want any part of this!"

No one spoke.  The fire crackled softly, and the night was deep and
still, as if listening covertly to what was taking place, an
eavesdropper waiting to see what would happen.  Jerle rose and walked
to the window.  He stood looking out at the trees and the mist.  He
tried to will himself to disappear.  "if I were to let them make me
king 

He did not finish.  Preia rose and stood looking across the room
at him.  "It would give you a chance to accomplish the things Tay
Trefenwyd could not.  If you were king, you could persuade the High
Council to send the Elves to give aid to the Dwarves.  If you were
king, you could dispose of the Black Elfstone at a time and place of
your own choosing and not be answerable to any.  Most important of all,
you would have an opportunity to destroy the Warlock Lord."

Jerle Shannara's head snapped around quickly.  "The Warlock Lord
destroyed the Druids.  What chance would I have against a thing so
monstrous?"

"A better chance than anyone else I can think of," she answered at
once.  "The vision has been shown twice now, once to Bremen, once to
Vree.  Perhaps it is prophetic.  If so, then you have a chance to do
something that not even Tay could do. You have a chance to save us all."

He stared at her.  She was telling him she believed he would be king.
She was saying that he must.  She was asking him to agree with her.

"She is right," Vree Erreden said softly.

But Jerle wasn't listening to him.  He continued to stare at Preia,
thinking back to several hours earlier when she had demanded that he
make his choice on a different matter, How much do I mean to you?  How
important am I?  Now she was asking the questions again, the words
altered only slightly.  How much do your people mean to you?  How
important are they to you?  He was aware of a sudden, precipitous shift
in both the nature of their relationship and the direction of his life,
both brought about by Tay Trefenwyd's death.  Events he would never
have dreamed possible had conspired to create this shift.  Fate of a
willful and deliberate sort had settled her hands squarely on his
shoulders.  Responsibility, leadership, and the hopes of his people-all
hung in the balance of the decision demanded of him.

His mind raced in search of answers that would not come.
But he knew, with a certainty that was terrifying, that whatever choice
he made, it would haunt him always.

"You must stand and face this," Preia said suddenly.  "You must
decide."

He felt as if the world was spinning out of control.  She asked too
much of him.  There was not yet need to decide any thing.  Any present
need was fueled by rumors and speculation.
No formal overture had been made concerning the kingship.
Alyten's fate was not determined.  What of Courtann Ballindarroch's
grandchildren?  Tay Trefenwyd himself had saved their lives.
Were they to be cast aside without a thought?  His own mind was not
made up on any of this.  He could barely conceive of what he was being
asked to consider.

But his thoughts had a hollow and ill-considered ring to them, and in
the silence of their aftermath he found himself face-to-face with the
grinning specter of his own desperation.

He turned away from the two who waited for him to speak and looked out
the window into the night.

No answer would come.

CHAPTER 21

IT WAS SUNSET, and the city of Dechtera was bathed in blood-red light.
The city sprawled across a plain between low-lying hills that ran north
and south, the buildings a ragged, uneven jumble of walls and roofs
silhouetted against the crimson horizon.  Darkness crept out of the
eastern grasslands, pushing back against the stain of the dying light,
swallowing up the land in its black maw.  The sun had settled behind a
low bank of clouds, turning both sky and land first orange and then
red, painting with vibrant, breathtaking colors, a defiant parting
gesture as the day came to its reluctant close.

Standing east with Bremen and Mareth where the darkness already
commanded the low heights and the plains below were beginning to streak
with shadows, Kinson Ravenlock stared wordlessly down at the
destination they had traveled so far to find.

Dechtera was an industrial city, easily reached from the other major
Southland cities, set close to the mines that served its needs.
It was large, far larger than any city that lay north, any of the
border cities, any of the Dwarf or Elven cities, and any but the
greatest of the Troll cities.  There were people and homes and shops in
Dechtera, but mostly there were the furnaces.  They burned without
ceasing, grouped in clusters throughout the city, defined in daylight
by the plumes of thick smoke that rose from their stacks and at night
by the bright, hot glow of their open mouths.  They drank greedily of
the wood and coal that fed the firings of the ores that passed into
their bellies to be melted down and shaped.  The hammers and anvils of
the smiths clanged and sparked at all hours, and Dechtera was a city of
never-ending color and sound.  Smoke and heat, ash and grit filled the
air and coated the buildings and the people.  Amid the cities of the
Southland, Dechtera was a grime-encrusted member of a family that
needed more than wanted her, put up with more than embraced her, and
never once thought to view her with anything approaching pride or
hope.

It was an unlikely choice for the forging of their talisman, thought
Kinson Ravenlock once more, for it was a city that cared nothing for
imagination, a city that survived by toil and rote, a city notoriously
inhospitable to Druids and magic alike.
Yet it was here, Bremen had countered when the Borderman had first
mentioned his concerns some days ago, that the man they needed would be
found.

Whoever he was, Kinson amended, because although the Druid had been
willing enough to tell them where they were going, he hadn't been
willing to tell them who they were going to see.

It had taken them almost two weeks to complete their journey.
Cogline had given Bremen the formula for the mixing of the metal alloy
to be used in the forging of the sword that would be carried in battle
against the Warlock Lord.  Cogline had remained recalcitrant and
skeptical to the moment of their parting, bidding farewell with the
firm assurance that he expected never to see any of them again.  They
had accepted his dismissal with weary resignation, departing
Hearthstone for Storlock, retracing their steps through Darklin
Reach.
That portion of their trek alone had taken them almost a week.  Upon
their arrival back in Storlock, they had secured horses and ridden out
onto the plains.  The Northland army had passed south by then, engaged
in its hunt for the Dwarves in the Wolfsktaag.
Nevertheless, Bremen was wary of those forces still deployed outside
the Anar and took his companions all the way to the Mountains of Runne
and then south along the shores of the Rainbow Lake.  That far west of
the Anar, he believed, they had less chance of encountering those who
served the Warlock Lord.  They passed down across the Silver River and
skirted the Mist Marsh before passing onto the Battlemound.
Travel was slow and cautious, for this was dangerous country even
without the added presence of the creatures that served Brona, and
there was no point in taking unnecessary chances.  There were things
born of old magic living in the Battlemound, things akin to those that
resided in the Wolfsktaag, and while Bremen knew of them and of the
ways in which they could be combated, the better choice was to avoid
them altogether.

So the trio rode south along a line that angled between the barren
stretches of the Battlemound, with its Sirens and wights, and the dark
depths of the Black Oaks with its wolf packs.
They traveled by day and kept close watch over one another by night.
They sensed, rather than saw, the things they wished to avoid, things
both native and foreign, things of land, water, and air alike, aware of
the eyes that followed after them, feeling more than once a presence
pass close by.  But nothing challenged them outright or made any
attempt to track them, and so they eased past the dangers of the
Borderlands and moved steadily on.

So that now, at the close of the thirteenth day of this most recent leg
of their odyssey, they stood looking down at the red welter of
Dechtera's industrial nightmare.

"I hate this city already," Kinson offered glumly, brushing the dust
from his clothes.  The land about them was barren and dry, empty of
trees and shade, thick with long grass and loose silt.  If it rained in
this part of the world, it did not do so regularly.

"I would not want to live in such a place," Mareth agreed.
"I cannot imagine those who do."

Bremen said nothing.  He stood looking down at Dechtera, his gaze more
distant than the city itself.  Then he closed his eyes and went
still.
Kinson and Mareth glanced at each other, waiting him out, letting him
be.  Below, the mouths of the furnaces glowed in white-hot spots amid
the gathering dark.  The red wash of the sunset had died away, the sun
gone down below the horizon far enough that its light was just a dim
streak barely visible through the clouds west.  A silence had settled
across the plains, and in its hush could be heard the hammering of
metal on metal.

"We are here," Bremen said suddenly, his eyes open once more, "because
Dechtera is home to the finest smiths in the Four Lands outside the
Troll nation.  The Southlanders have no use for the Druids, but they
are more likely to provide us with what we require than the Trolls.
All we need do is find the right man.  Kinson, that will be your
task.
You will be able to pass through the city freely and without attracting
attention."

"Fair enough," Kinson agreed, anxious to get on with matters.
"Who is it I seek?"

"That will be up to you to decide."

"Up to me?"  Kinson was astounded.  "We came all this way to find a man
we don't even know?"

Bremen smiled indulgently.  "Patience, Kinson.  And have faith.
We did not come here blindly or without reason.  The man we seek is
here, known to us or not.  As I said, the best smiths in the Four Lands
reside in Dechtera.  But we must choose among them and choose wisely.
It will take some investigating.  Your Tracker skills should serve you
well."

"What exactly am I looking for in this man?"  Kinson pressed; he was
irritated by his own uncertainty.

"What you would look for in any other man-plus skill, knowledge, and
pride of workmanship in his trade.  A master smith."  Bremen put one
frail hand on the big man's shoulder.
"Did you really have to ask me that?"

Kinson grimaced.  Standing to one side, Mareth smiled faintly.
"What do I do when I've found this master smith?"

"Return here for me.  Then we will go down together to persuade him to
our cause."

Kinson looked back at the city, at its maze of dark buildings and
scattered fires, at the mix of black shadows and crimson glare.  The
workday had become the work night, and there was no dimming of the
furnaces or slowing of the labor.  The swelter of heat and body sweat
hung above the city in a damp shimmer.

"A smith who understands the concept of mixing ores to make stronger
alloys and of tempering metals to gain that strength."  Kinson shook
his head.  "Not to mention a smith who thinks it is all right to help
the Druids forge a weapon of magic.  

Bremen tightened his hand on his
friend's shoulder.  "Do not be overly concerned with our smith's
beliefs.  Look for the other qualities instead.  Find the master we
seek-leave the rest to me."

Kinson nodded.  He looked at Mareth, at the huge, dark eyes staring
back into his.  "What of you?"

"Mareth and I will wait here for your return.  You will do better
alone.  You will be able to move more freely if not burdened by the
presence of companions."  Bremen took his hand from the Borderman's
shoulder.  "But be careful, Kinson.  These are your countrymen, but
they are not necessarily your friends."

Kinson stripped off his pack, checked his weapons, and wrapped his
cloak carefully about his shoulders.  "I know that."

He clasped the old man's hand and held it.  Bird bones, more fragile
than he remembered.  He released his grip quickly.

Then, so impulsively he could not later decipher his reasoning, he bent
to Mareth, kissed her lightly on the cheek, turned, and set off down
the slope of the night-draped hill for the city.

His JOURNEY IN took him more than an hour.  He did not set a hurried
pace, but walked slowly and easily across the flats that led in.  There
was no reason to rush, and should anyone be watching he did not want to
call attention to himself, He worked his way steadily out of the
darkness and into the light, feeling the temperature of the air rise as
he neared the buildings, hearing the sounds of hammer and tongs on
metal grow louder and more intense.  Voices rose, a cacophony that
signaled the presence of ale houses, taverns, inns, and brothels amid
the great furnaces and warehouses.  Laughter rose out of the grunts and
swearing, out of the clamor and din, and the mix of work and pleasure
was pervasive and incongruous.  No separation of life's functions in
this city, the Borderman decided.  No separation of any sort.

He thought briefly of Mareth, of that quiet way she had of looking at
him-as if she was studying him in ways he could not understand, as if
she was measuring him for something.
Strangely enough, it did not bother him.  There was reassurance to be
found in her gaze, a comfort to be taken from having her want to know
him better.  That had never happened before, not even with Bremen.
But Mareth was different.  They had grown close in the past two weeks,
in the time they had traveled south to Dechtera.  They had talked not
of the present, but of the past, of when they were young and of what
growing up had meant for them.  They had told their separate stories
and begun to discover they shared much in common.  The sharing was not
of events or of experiences so much as of insights.  They had learned
the same lessons in their lives and arrived at the same conclusions.
Their view of the world was similar.  They were content with who and
what they were, accepting that they were different from others.  They
were content to live alone, to travel, to explore what was unknown, to
discover what was new.
They had given up their family ties long ago.  They had shed their
civilized skin and taken on the wanderer's cloak.  They saw themselves
as outcasts by choice and accepted that it was all right to be so.

But most important of all was their mutual willingness to allow
themselves to keep what secrets they would and to reveal them as they
chose.  It meant more to Mareth, perhaps, than to Kinson, for she was
the more closely guarded of the two and the one to whom privacy meant
the most.  She had harbored secrets from the beginning, and Kinson
felt certain that despite her recent revelations she harbored them
still.  But he did not sense bad intent in this, and he believed
strongly that everyone had the right to wrestle their personal demons
without interference from others.  Mareth was risking as much as they
in coming with them.  She had taken a gamble in allying herself with
them when it would have been just as easy to go her own way.
Perhaps Bremen would be able to help her with her magic and perhaps
not-there was no guarantee.  She had to know this.
After all, he had barely mentioned the matter since leaving
Hearthstone, and Mareth had not sought to press him.

In any event, they had drawn closer as a result of their confidences,
their bonds forged selectively and with care, and now each possessed
insight to help determine how best to measure the other's words and
actions.  Kinson liked that.

Yet there remained a distance between them that he could not close, a
separateness that no words could transcend or actions breach.
It was Mareth's choice to enforce this condition, and while it was not
just Kinson whom she kept at arm's length it sometimes felt so to him
when measured against the closeness they had otherwise achieved.

Mareth's reasons, while unknown, seemed weighted by habit and fear.
There was something within her that demanded she stay isolated from
others, some flaw, some defect, or perhaps some secret more frightening
than anything he might imagine.  Now and again, he would sense her
trying to break past her self-imposed prison with some small word or
act.  But she could not seem to manage it.  Lines had been drawn in the
sand, a box for her to stand inside, and she could not make herself
step out.

That was why he felt some satisfaction now, he supposed, from
surprising her as he had with that kiss, an act so unexpected that for
one brief moment it had breached her defenses.

He recalled the look on her face as he drew away.  He recalled how her
arms had wrapped protectively about her small body.

He smiled to himself as he walked, Dechtera drawing close now, its
separate parts coming into focus-the walls and roofs of individual
buildings, the lights shining out of windows and doorways, the alleys
prowled by rats and the streets roamed by homeless, the working men and
women moving through the screen of ash and heat in pursuit of their
goals.  He put his thoughts of Mareth aside, no longer able to dwell on
them, the task that lay ahead demanding his full attention.  There
would be time for Mareth later.  He let the image of her eyes linger 
before him a moment more, then brushed it away.

He walked into the city along one of several main streets, taking time
to study the buildings and the people crowded around him.  He was in a
working district, amid a cluster of warehouses and storage sheds.
Flat carts pulled by donkeys hauled pieces of metal scrap for melting
and reshaping at the furnaces.  He scanned the rusted, broken
buildings, a neglected, mostly dilapidated collection, and then moved
on.  He passed through a section of smaller forges manned by single
smiths, the tools and molds rudimentary, the firings meant for simple
tasks, and did not slow.  He passed slag heaps and scrap piles, stacks
of old building timbers and rows of abandoned buildings.
Smells rose out of the gutters and refuse, rank and pervasive.
Kinson shied away.  Shadows flickered and jumped in the glare of the
furnace fires and street lamps, small creatures darting momentarily
from hiding places and then disappearing back again.
The men who passed him were bent and worn, laborers all their lives,
trudging from payday to payday until death laid claim to their souls.
Few eyes even bothered to look up as he passed.  No one spoke.

He went down into the center of the city, the evening close and
sluggish with heat, the hour edging toward midnight.  He glanced
through the doors and windows of the ale houses and taverns, debating
whether he should enter.  He did finally, choosing one or two that
suited his purpose, staying long enough to listen to the talk, to ask a
question or two, to buy a glass when it was called for, then moving
on.
Who did the finest metalwork in all the city?  he would ask.  Which of
the smiths was master of his craft?  The choices differed each time,
and the reasons supporting the choices differed even more.  Using the
names he had heard mentioned more than once, Kinson stopped at a
handful of midsize forges to test them on the smiths at work there.
Some responded with little more than grunts of disinterest.  Some had
more voluble opinions to offer.
One or two gave a thoughtful response.  Kinson listened, smiled
agreeably, and moved on.

Midnight came and went.

"HE WILL NOT BE BACK TONIGHT," Bremen said, looking down at the city
from the hills, his cloak wrapped tightly about his spare form in spite
of the heat.

Mareth stood next to him in silence.  They had watched the Borderman
until he could no longer be seen, a diminishing figure melting away in
the gathering dark.  Even then, they had not moved, continuing their
vigil as if sentinels posted against the coming of the night.  Overhead
the skies brightened with stars and a quarter-moon, visible from the
heights, but not from the smoke-shrouded city below.

Bremen turned away, walked a few steps to his left, and settled
himself in a patch of soft, thick grass.  Comfort for his aging
bones.
He sighed contentedly.  It took less and less to satisfy him, he
found.
He thought to eat, but realized he wasn't really hungry.  He looked up
as Mareth came over to join him, seating herself unbidden, looking off
into the dark as if something waited for her there.

"Would you like to eat?"  he asked her, but she shook her head.
Lost in her thoughts, gone back into the past again or perhaps
speculating on the future-he had learned to recognize the look.  More
often somewhere other than where she was, possessed of a restless
spirit and a dissatisfied heart, that was Mareth.

He left her alone for a time, gathering his own thoughts, not wanting
to rush what he intended.  It was a delicate matter, and if she felt
she was being coerced, she would close herself off from him
completely.
Yet there must be a resolution, and it must come now.

"On nights like these, I think of my boyhood," he said finally, looking
not at her, but at the summit of the hills and the stars that hung
above them.  He smiled.  "Oh, I suppose it seems as if someone as old
as I am could not ever have been young.
But I was.  I lived in the hill country below Leah with my grand
father, who was a metalworker of great skill.  Even when he was old,
his hands were steady and his eye keen.  I would watch him for hours,
amazed at his dexterity and patience.  He loved my grandmother, and
when she died, he said she took a part of him with her that he could
never have back again, but that the loss was worth it for the time they
had shared.  He said I had been given him in her place.  He was a fine
man."

He looked at Mareth now and found her looking back, interested.
"But my parents were another matter.  They were nothing like my
grandfather.  They were never able to settle in one spot for long, not
ever in their short lives, and nothing of my grandfather's dedication
to his craft ever took root in them.
They were always moving about, changing their lives, looking for
something new, something different.  They left me with my grandfather
shortly after I was born.  They had no time for me."

His aged brow wrinkled thoughtfully.  "I resented it for many years,
but eventually I came to understand.  That's how it is with parents and
children.  Each disappoints the other in ways that neither recognizes
nor intends, and it takes time to overcome that disappointment.  It was
so with my parents and their decision to leave me."

"But you have a right to expect your parents to stay with you through
your childhood," Mareth declared.

Bremen smiled.  "I used to believe that.  But a child doesn't allways
understand the complexities of adult choices.  A child's best hope in
life is that its parents will try to do what is best for it, but
deciding what is best is a difficult process.  My parents knew I would
not grow well traveling with them, for they were not able to give me
the attention I needed.  They could barely give it to each other.  So
they left me with my grandfather, who loved me and watched over me as
they could not.  It was the right choice."

She mulled it over for a moment.  "But it marked you."

He nodded.  "For a time, but not in any lasting way.  Perhaps it even
helped toughen me.  I don't pretend to know.  We grow as best we can
under the circumstances given us.  What good does it do to second-guess
ourselves years after the fact?  Better that we simply try to
understand why we are as we are and then better ourselves by learning
from that."

There was a long silence as they faced each other, the expressions on
their faces lit well enough by the light of stars and moon to be
clearly discernible.

"You are talking about me, aren't you?"  Mareth said finally.
"My parents, my family."

Bremen did not let his expression change.  "You do not disappoint me,
Mareth," he said softly.  "Your insight serves you well."

Her small features hardened.  "I do resent my parents.  They left me to
grow up with strangers.  It wasn't my mother's fault! she died giving
birth to me.  I don't know about my father.  Per haps it wasn't his
fault either."  She shook her head.  "But that doesn't change how I
feel about them.  It doesn't make me feel any better about being
left."

Bremen eased forward, needing to shift his body to avoid cramping of
muscles and joints.  The aches and pains were more frequent and less
easily dispelled these days.  The very opposite of his hunger, he
thought with irony.  Welcome to old age.  Even the Druid Sleep was
losing its power to sustain him.

His eyes sought hers.  "I would guess that you have reason to be angry
with your parents beyond what you have told me.
I would guess that your anger is a weight about your heart, a great
stone you cannot dislodge.  Long ago, it defined the boundaries of your
life.  It set you on your journey to Paranor.
It brought you to me."

He waited, letting the impact of his words sink in, letting her see
what was in his eyes.  He wanted her to decide that he was not the
enemy she sought, for seek her enemy she did.  He wanted her to accept
that he might be her friend if she would let him.  He wanted her to
confide in him, to reveal at last the truth she kept so carefully
hidden.

"You know," she replied softly.

He shook his head.  "No.  I only guess, nothing more."  He smiled
wearily.  "But I would like to know.  I would like to offer some
comfort to you if I could."

"Comfort."  She said the word in a dull, hopeless way.

"You came to me to discover the truth about yourself, Mareth," he
continued gently.  "You may not have thought of it that way, but that
is what you did.  You came to seek help with your magic, with a power
you can neither rid yourself of nor live without.  It is an awesome,
terrible burden, but no worse than the burden of the truth you hide.  I
can feel its weight from here, child.  You wear it like chains wrapped
about your body."


"You do know," she whispered insistently.  Her dark eyes were huge and
staring.

"Listen to me.  Your burdens are inextricably bound together, the truth
you hide and the magic you fear.  I have learned that much in traveling
with you, in watching you, in hearing of your concerns.  If you would
rid yourself of the magic's hold, you must first address the truth you
have hidden in your heart.  Of your parents.  Of your birth.
Of who and what you are.  Tell me, Mareth."

She shook her head dully, her gaze falling away from his, her arms
coming about her small body as if to ward it from a chill.

"Tell me," he pressed.

She swallowed back the advent of her tears, fought down her sudden
shaking, and lifted her face to the starlight.

Then slowly, tremulously, she began to speak.

CHAPTER 22

I AM NOT AFRAID OF YOU" was the first thing she said to him.  The words
came in a rush, as if by speaking them she might tap a hidden reservoir
of strength.  "You might think so after hearing what I have to say, but
you would be wrong.  I am not afraid of anyone."

Bremen was surprised by her declaration, but he did not let it show.
"I make no assumptions about you, Mareth," he said.

"I might even be stronger than you," she added defiantly.
"My magic might be more powerful than yours, so there is no reason for
me to be afraid.  If you were to test me, you might regret it."

He shook his head.  "I have no reason to test you."

"When you hear what I have to say, you might think differently.
You might decide you must.  You might feel it necessary to protect
yourself."  She took a deep breath.  "Don't you under stand?  Nothing
between us is what it seems!  We might be en emies of a sort that will
demand that one of us hurt the other!"

He considered her words in silence for a moment, then said, "I don't
think so.  But say what you must to me.  Hold nothing back."

She stared at him without speaking, as if trying to decide the depth of
his sincerity, to uncover the truth behind his insistence.

Her small body was coiled into itself, and her large, dark eyes were
deep, liquid pools in which the reflection of her roiling emotions was
clearly visible.

"My parents were always a mystery," she said finally.  "My mother died
at my birth, and my father was gone even before that.  I never knew
them, never saw them, had no memory of them to carry with me.  I knew
of them because the people who raised me made it clear enough that I
was not theirs.  They did not do so in an unkind way, but they were
hard, determined people, and they had worked all their lives for what
was theirs and thought that it should be so for everyone.  I was not
theirs, not really, and so they laid no claim to me, They cared for me,
but I did not belong to them.  I belonged to people who were dead and
gone.

"I knew when I was very little that my mother had died giving birth to
me.  The people who raised me made no secret of it.  They spoke of her
now and again, and when I was old enough to ask about her, they
described her to me.  She was small and dark like me.  She was
pretty.
She liked to garden and ride horses.  They seemed to think she was a
good person.  She lived in their village, but unlike them she had
traveled to other parts of the Southland and seen something of the
world.  She was not born in the village, but had come there from
somewhere else.  I never knew where.  I never knew why.  I think she may
have kept that to herself.  If I had other relatives living somewhere in
the Southland, I never learned of them.  Perhaps the people who
raised me never knew of them either."

She paused, but her gaze stayed fixed on the old man.  "The people who
raised me had two children, both older than me.
They loved these children and made them feel a part of the family.
They took them to visit other people and on picnics and gatherings.
They did not do that with me.  I understood from the beginning that I
was not like these children.  I was made to stay in the home, to look
after things, to help with chores, to do what I was told.  I was
allowed to play, but I always under stood that it was different for me
than for my brother and sister.
As I grew older, I came to see that my new parents were uneasy about me
for reasons I did not understand.  There was some thing about me that
they did not like or trust.  They preferred that I play by myself
rather than with my brother and sister, and mostly that was what I
did.
I was given food and clothing and shelter, but I was a guest in the
home and not a member of the family.  Not like my brother and sister.
I knew that."

"This must have made you bitter and discouraged even then," Bremen
offered quietly.

Mareth shrugged.  "I was a child.  I did not understand enough of life
to appreciate what was being done to me.  I accepted my situation
and did not complain.  I was not treated badly.  I think the people who
raised me felt some sympathy for me, some compassion, or they would not
have taken me in.
They never said so, of course.  They never explained their reasons,
but I have to believe that they would not have cared for me-even in the
way they did if there was no love in their hearts for me."

She sighed.  "I was apprenticed at twelve.  I was told that this would
happen, and like everything else, I accepted it as part of the natural
course of my life, of growing up.  That my brother and my sister were
not apprenticed did not bother me.  They had always been treated
differently, and I accepted that their lives would be different from my
own.  After I was apprenticed, I saw the people who raised me only a
few times.  My foster mother came to see me once and brought me a
basket of treats.
It was an awkward visit, and she left quickly.  One time I saw both of
them on the street, passing by the potter's on their way to
somewhere.
They did not look at me.  By then, I was aware of the potter's
predilection for administering beatings at the least excuse.
I already hated my new life, and I blamed the people who raised me for
giving me up.  I did not want to see them any more.  After I fled the
potter and the village of my birth, I never did."

"Nor your brother or sister?"  Bremen asked.

She shook her head.  "There was no need.  Whatever ties we had formed
while growing had long since been broken.  Thinking of them now only
makes me sad."

"You had a difficult childhood.  You've come to understand that better
now that you are grown, haven't you?"

The smile she gave him was cold and brittle.  "I have come to
understand many things that were hidden from me as a child.
But let me finish my story and you can judge for yourself.  What
matters in all Of this is that just before I left to apprentice to the
potter, I began hearing things about my father.  I was eleven by then
and already knew that I would be apprenticed at twelve.
knew I would be leaving my home, and I suppose it made me consider
seriously for the first time the scope and meaning of the wider
world.
Traders and trappers and tinkers passed through our village, so I knew
there were other places to see, places far away.  I wondered sometimes
if my father was out there somewhere, waiting.  I wondered if he knew
of me.  I had determined in my own childlike way that my parents had
not married and so had not lived together as husband and wife.  My
mother bore me alone, my father already gone.  What of him, then?  No
one would say.  I thought to ask more than once, but there was
something in the way my providers spoke of my mother and her life that
made it clear I was not to ask.  My mother had transgressed in some
way, and she was forgiven her transgression only because she had died
giving birth to me.  I was a part of her transgression, but it was not
clear to me how or why.

"When I was old enough to know that secrets were being kept from me, I
began to want to uncover them.  I was eleven old enough to recognize
deception and old enough to practice it.  I began to ask questions
about my mother, small and inconsequential questions that would not
arouse anger or suspicion.  I asked them mostly of my foster mother,
because she was the less taciturn of the pair.  I would ask the
questions when we were alone, then listen at night at the door of my
sleeping room to hear what she would say to her husband.  Sometimes she
would say nothing.  Sometimes the words were obscured by the closed
door.  But once or twice I caught a sentence or two, a phrase, a
word-some small mention of my father.  It was not the words themselves
that revealed so much, but the way in which they were spoken.  My
father was an outsider who passed through the village, stayed briefly,
returned once or twice, and then disappeared.  The people of the
village shunned him, all save my mother.  She was attracted to him.  No
reason for this was offered.  Was she attracted to him for the way he
looked or the words he spoke or the life he led?  I could not learn.
But it was clear they feared and disliked him, and some part of that
fear and dislike had been transferred to me."

She went quiet for a moment, gathering her thoughts.  She seemed small
and vulnerable, but Bremen knew that impression was false.  He waited,
letting her eyes continue to hold his in the deep night silence.

"I knew even then that I was not like anyone else.  I knew I had the
magic, even though it was just beginning to manifest it self in me, not
yet come to maturity, so that it was mostly vague stirrings and small
mutterings in my child's body.  It seemed logical to conclude that it
was the magic that was feared and disliked, and it was this that I had
inherited from my father.  Magic was mistrusted in general in my
village-it was the unwanted legacy of the First War of the Races, when
Men had been sub verted by the rebel Druid Brona and defeated in a war
with the other Races and driven south into exile.  Magic had caused all
this, and it was a vast, dark unknown that lurked at the corners of the
subconscious and threatened the unwary.  The people of my village were
superstitious and not well educated and were frightened of many
things.

Magic could be blamed for much of what they didn't understand.
I think the people who raised me believed that I might grow into some
manifestation of my father, the bearer of his magic's seed, and so
they could never quite accept me as their child.  In the eleventh year
of my life, I began to understand why this was so.

"The potter knew my history as well, though he did not speak of it to
me in the beginning when I went to work for him.
He would not admit that he was afraid of a child, even one with my
history, and he took pride in the fact that he took me in when no one
else would.  I did not realize that at first, but he told me later.
'No one would have you-that's why you're here.
Be grateful to me."  He would say that when he had drunk too much and was
thinking about beating me.  His drinking loos ened his tongue and gave
him a boldness that was otherwise absent.  The longer I was with him,
the more he drank-but it was not because of me.  He had been drinking
too much for most of his life, and it was the aging and the incumbent
failure to achieve success of any kind that encouraged him.
As his drinking increased, his work time and output lessened.  I took
his place many times, taking on the tasks I could manage.  I taught
myself a great deal and acquired an early skill."

She shook her head sadly, a distance creeping into her voice.  "I was
fifteen when I left him.  He tried once too often to beat me for no
reason, and I fought back.  By then, I had matured.  I had my magic to
protect me.  I did not understand the extent of its power until the day
I fought back.  Then I knew.  I almost killed him.  I ran from the
village and its people and my life, knowing I would never go back.  I
realized something on that day that I had only suspected before.  I
realized that I was indeed my father's child."

She paused, her face intense, a fierce resolve apparent in her dark
eyes.  "I had discovered the truth about my father, you see.
The potter had gotten drunk one too many times and told me.
He would drink until he could barely stand, and then he would taunt
me.
He would say it over and over.  'Don't you know who you are?
Don't you know what you are?  Your father's child!  A black spot on the
earth, birthed by a demon and his bitch!  You have the eyes, little
girl!  You have the stain of his blood and his dark presence!
Worthless to all but me, so better listen when I tell you to do
something!  Better heed what I say!  Else you'll have no place in the
world at all!"

"So it went, followed each time by a new beating.  I didn't feel the
blows much by then.  I knew how to cover myself and how to say what he
wished to hear so that he would stop.  But I grew tired of it.  I grew
angry at my degradation, On the day I left him, I knew before he tried
to strike me that I would resist.  When he began to shout at me about
my father, I laughed in his face.  I called him a liar and a drunk.  I
told him he didn't know anything about my father.
He lost control of himself completely.  He called me things I will not
repeat.  He told me that my father had come down out of the north, out
of the border country where his black order made its home.  He told me
my father was a conjurer of magic and a stealer of souls.  'A demon
disguised as a man!  Him in his black robes!  With his wolf's eyes!
Your father, girl!  Oh, we knew what he was!  We knew his dark
secret!
And you, made in such a perfect image of him, secretive and
sharp-eyed!  You think we don't see, but we do!  We all do, the whole
village!  Why do you think you were given to me?  Why do you think
those people who raised you were so anxious to be rid of you?  They
knew what you were!  They knew you were a Druid's whelp!"' 

She took a
long, slow breath, looking at him, waiting for him to speak.  She
wanted to hear his reaction, he could tell.
She was hungry for it.  But he did not answer.

"I knew he was right," she said finally, the words a low hiss of
challenge unmistakably directed at him.  "I think I had known for some
time.  There was talk now and again of the black-robed men who prowled
the Four Lands, the ones who kept their order at the castle of
Paranor.
Conjurers of magic, all-powerful and all-seeing, creatures more spirit
than human, the cause of so much pain and suffering among the people of
the Southland.
They spoke of how now and again one would pass close by.
'Once,' it was whispered when the speaker did not realize I could hear,
'one stayed.  There was a woman seduced by him, There was a child!"
Then hands would lift in a warding motion and the voice would go
still.
My father.  That was who they were speaking of in their hushed,
frightened voices.  My father!"

She hunched forward, and Bremen could tell that in doing so she was
bringing her formidable magic up from the center of her small body to
the tips of her fingers, readying it.  A twinge of doubt passed through
him.  He forced himself to remain calm, to stay perfectly still, to let
her finish.

"I have come to believe," she said slowly, purposefully, "that they
were speaking of you."

THE SHOPKEEPER was just closing up as Kinson Ravenlock stepped through
the door from the darkness and stood looking at the sword.  The hour
was late, and the streets of Dechtera had begun to empty of everyone
but the men passing to and from the ale houses.  Kinson was weary of
his search, and he had been on his way to find a room at one of the
inns when he passed down a street lined with weapons shops and saw the
sword.  It was displayed in a window framed by crosshatched iron bars
inset with small, grimy panes of glass.  He had almost missed it in his
need for sleep, but the brilliant glint of the metal blade had caught
his eye.

He stared at the sword now, stunned.  It was the most singular piece
of workmanship he had ever encountered.  Even the smeared glass and the
poor light could not hide the high sheen of the blade's polished
surface or the keenness of its edge.  The sword was huge, seemingly too
large for an average man.  Intricate scrollwork had been carved into
the great hilt, a montage of serpents and castles overlaid on a forest
background.  There were other, smaller blades, equally cunning and
fine, forged by the same hands, if Kinson did not miss his guess, but
it was the sword that held him spellbound.

"Sorry, I'm closing up," the shopkeeper announced, begin rung to
extinguish the lamps at the rear of his worn but surprisingly clean
establishment.  There were blades of every kind-swords, daggers, dirks,
axes, pikes, and others too numerous to count, mounted on every wall,
on every available surface, in cases and racks.  Kinson took them all
in at a glance, but his eyes kept coming back to the sword.

"I won't take a minute," he said quickly.  "I just wanted to ask a
question."

The shopkeeper sighed and walked over.  He was lean and wiry, with
muscular arms and strong hands.  He moved easily as he approached
Kinson, and it looked as if he could handle a blade himself if the need
arose.  "You want to ask about the sword, am I right?"

Kinson smiled.  "I do.  How did you know?"

The shopkeeper shrugged, running his hand through thinning dark
hair.
"I saw where your eyes traveled when you walked through the door.
Besides, everyone asks about the sword.  How can they not?  As wondrous
a piece of workman ship as you'll find in all the Four Lands.
Very valuable."

"I'll grant you that," Kinson said.  "I suppose that's why you still
have it for sale."

The shopkeeper laughed.  "Oh, it's not for sale.  It's just for
display.  It belongs to me.  I wouldn't sell it for all the gold in
Dechtera or any other city.  Craftsmanship of that sort can't be bought
and only rarely can it be found."

Kinson nodded.  "It is a fine blade.  But it would take a strong man to
wield it."

"Such as yourself?"  the shopkeeper asked, arching one eyebrow.

Kinson pursed his lips thoughtfully.  "I think it is too big even for
me.  Look at its length."

"Ha!"  The shopkeeper seemed amused.  "Everyone thinks the same!
That is the wonder of the blade.  Look, it has been a long day and I am
tired.  But I will show you a little secret.  If you like what you see,
maybe you will buy something and make the time I spend with you worth
my while.  Fair enough?"

Kinson nodded.  The shopkeeper walked to the display window, reached
down under the casing, and released something.
There was a series of audible clicks.  Then he took away a chain
cleverly looped about the handle to secure the great sword to its
mount.  Carefully he lifted the blade down.  He turned, grinning
broadly, and held the weapon out before him, balancing it in his
hands-easily, as if it had no weight at all.

Kinson stared in disbelief.  The shopkeeper laughed in rec ognition,
and then he passed the sword to the Borderman.
Kinson took it from him, and his amazement grew.  The sword was so
light that he could hold it in one hand.

"How is this possible?"  he breathed, bringing the shining blade up
before his eyes, dazzled by its ease of handling as much as by its
workmanship.  He looked at the shopkeeper quickly.  "It can have no
strength if it is this light!"

"It is the strongest piece of metal you will ever encounter, my
friend," the shopkeeper announced.  "The mix of metals and the
tempering of the alloy make it stronger than iron and as light as
tin.
There is no other like it.  Here, let me show you something else."

He retrieved the sword from a wondering Kinson and re stored it to its
case, resecuring the locks and chain that held it in place.  Then he
reached farther in and brought out a knife, the blade alone fully
twenty inches long, carved with the same intricate scrollwork, clearly
crafted by the same skilled hands.

"This is the blade for you," the shopkeeper declared softly and passed
it to Kinson with a smile.  "This is what I would sell you."

It was as wondrous as the sword, if not so impressive in size.
Kinson was immediately entranced.  Light, perfectly balanced, finely
wrought, sharp as a cat's claw, the knife was a weapon of impossible
beauty and strength.  Kinson smiled in recognition of the blade's
worth, and the shopkeeper smiled back.  Kinson asked the cost, and the
shopkeeper told him.  They bargained for a few minutes, and a deal was
struck.  It cost Kinson almost every coin he had, which was a
considerable sum, but he did not once think to walk away.

Kinson stuck the knife and its sheath in his belt, where the blade
rested comfortably against his hip.  "My thanks," he offered.  "it was
a good choice."

"It is my business to know," the shopkeeper demurred.

"I still have my question to ask," Kinson said as the other moved to
show him out.

"Ah, that's right.  Your question.  Haven't I answered it?  I thought
it was about the sword that you ... ?"

"it is about the sword, indeed," Kinson interrupted, looking at the
blade once more.  "But another sword.  I have a friend who is in need
of such a weapon, but he would have it forged according to his own
specifications.  The task will require a master smith.  The man who
made your sword seems right for the job."

The shopkeeper stared at him as if he had lost his mind.
"You wish to have a weapon forged by the maker of my sword?"

Kinson nodded, then added quickly, "Are you him?"

The shopkeeper smiled bleakly.  "No.  But you might as well ask me as
ask the man who is, for all the good it will do you."

Kinson shook his head.  "I don't understand."

"No, I don't guess you do."  The shopkeeper sighed.  "Listen close, and
I'll explain."

BREMEN'S FIRST REACTION to Mareth's words was to want to tell her
straight out that the charge was ridiculous.  But the look on her face
warned him to reconsider.  She must have spent a long time arriving at
her conclusion, and she had not done so lightly.
She deserved to be taken seriously.

"Mareth, how did you decide I was your father?"  he asked gently.

The night was fragrant with the smell of grasses and flowers, and the
light of moon and stars lent a soft silver cast to the hills above the
garish brightness of the distant city.  Mareth glanced away for a
moment, as if looking for her answer in the darkness.

"You think me a fool," she hissed.

"No, never that.  Tell me your reasoning.  Please."

She shook her head at something unseen.  "From long before the time of
my birth, the Druids kept to themselves at Paranor.
They had withdrawn from the Races, abandoning their earlier practice of
going out among the people.  Now and again, one would return home to
visit family and friends, but none of these were from my village.  Few
bothered to venture into the South land at all.

"But there was one who did, one who visited regularly.  You.
You came into the Southland in spite of the suspicion directed at the
Druids.  You were even seen now and again.  It was whispered among the
people of my village that when my mother conceived me, you were the
demon, the dark wraith, who seduced her, who made her fall in love
with him!"

She went silent again.  She was breathing hard.  There was an unspoken
challenge in her words that dared him to deny that it was so.
She was all tension and hard edges, her magic a crackle of dark energy
at the tips of her fingers.

Her eyes burned into him.  "I have been looking for you for as long as
I can remember.  I have carried the burden of my magic like a weight
around my neck, and not one day has passed when it has not reminded me
of you.  My mother could not tell me of you.  The rumors were all I
had.  But in my travels I always looked.  I knew that one day I would
find you.  I went to Storlock thinking to find you, thinking you might
pass through.  You didn't, but Cogline gave me entry into Paranor and
that was better still, because I knew that eventually you would come
there."

"And so you asked to come with me when I did."  He considered.
"Why did you not tell me then?"

She shook her head.  "I wanted to know you better first.  I wanted to
see for myself what kind of man my father was."

He nodded slowly, thinking the matter through.  Then he folded his
hands in front of him, old bones and parchment skin feeling used and
weathered beyond repair.

"You saved my life twice in that time."  His smile was worn and his
eyes curious.  "Once at the Hadeshorn, once at Paranor."

She stared at him, thinking back on what she had done, having nothing
to say.

"I am not your father, Mareth," he told her.

"Of course you would say that!"

"If I were your father," he said quietly, "I would be proud to admit
it.  But I am not.  At the time of your conception, I was traveling the
Four Lands and might even have come to the village of your mother.
But I have no children.  I lack even the possibility of children.  I
have been alive a long time, kept so by the Druid Sleep.
But the Sleep has demanded much of me.  It has given me time that I
would not otherwise have, but it has exacted a price.  Part of that
price is an inability to sire children.
Consequently, I have never entered into a relationship with a woman.  I
have never taken a lover.  I was in love once, long ago, so long that I
barely remember the face of the girl.  It was before I became a
Druid.
It was before I began to live my present life.  Since then, there has
been no one."

"I do not believe you," she said at once.

He smiled sadly.  "Yes, you do.  You know that I am telling you the
truth.  You can sense it.  I am not your father.  But the truth of
things may be harsher still.  The superstitions of the people of your
village probably helped make them believe that I was the man who
conceived you.  My name would be readily known to them, and perhaps
they settled on it simply because your father was a black-cloaked
stranger who possessed magic.
But listen to me, Mareth.  There is more to consider, and it will not
be pleasant for you."

Her mouth tightened.  "Why am I not surprised?"

"I have been giving thought to the nature of your magic, even before
this.  Innate magic, magic born to you, as indigenous to who and what
you are as the flesh of your body.  It happens seldom.  It was a
characteristic of the faerie people, but they have mostly been dead for
centuries.  Except for the Elves, and the Elves have lost their
magic-all but a little.  The Druids, myself included, lack any form of
innate magic.  So where did yours come from if your father was a
Druid?
Suppose for a moment that he was.  Which of the Druids has that sort
of power?
Which of them, that magic would have been necessary for your
conception?"

"Oh, Shades," she said softly, seeing now where he was going with
this.

"Wait, say nothing yet," he urged.  He reached forward and took her
hands in his.  She let him do so, her dark eyes wide, her face
stricken.  "Be strong, Mareth.  You must.  Your father was described by
the people of your village as a demon and a wraith, a dark creature who
could take on different looks as needed.  You used the words
yourself.
That sort of magic would not have been practiced by a Druid.  For the
most part, it could not have been.  But there are others for whom the
taking on of such magic would have been easy.  

 "Lies," she whispered, but there was no force behind the accusation.

"The Warlock Lord has creatures in his service who assume the
appearance of humans.  They do so for various reasons.
They will try to subvert the ones they pretend to be.  They will try to
deceive them.  They do so to win them over and to use them.
Sometimes the subversion is done for no better purpose than to capture
what was lost of their own humanity, to relive in some small way the
life that was lost to them when they be came the things they are.
Sometimes they do so simply out of malice.  The magic these creatures
have embraced has become so much a part of who and what they are that
they use it with out thinking.  They do not differentiate between two
separate needs.  They act on instinct and to sate whatever desire
drives them at a given moment.  Not out of reason or emotion, but out
of instinct."

There were tears in Mareth's eyes.  "My father?"

Bremen nodded slowly.  "It would explain the magic born to you.
Innate magic, the dark gift bequeathed you by your father.
Not a Druid's gift, but the gift of a creature for whom magic has
become lifeblood.  It is so, Mareth.  It is hard to accept, I know, but
it is so."

"Yes," she whispered, speaking so low that he could barely hear her.
"I was so sure."

Her head lowered, and she began to cry.  Her hands clenched his, and
the magic died away, fading with the anger and tension, curling into a
hard knot deep within.

Bremen shifted closer, putting his thin arm around her shoulders.
"One thing more, child," he told her softly.  "I would be your father
still, if you would have me.  I would be as much a parent to you as if
you were my own.  I think much of you.
I would give you what advice I could in your struggle to comprehend
the nature of your magic.  The first thing I would tell you is that you
are not your father.  You are nothing like him, dark thing that he was,
not even in your birthright.  The magic is your own.  You have its
power to bear, and that is a heavy weight.  But though the magic was
given to you by your father, it does not define your character or
dictate the nature of your heart.  You are a good and strong person,
Mareth.  You are nothing of the dark creature who spawned you."

Mareth's head moved against his shoulder.  "You cannot know.  I may be
exactly that."

"No," he soothed.  "No.  You are nothing of him, child.
Nothing."

He stroked her dark hair and held her to him, letting her cry, letting
the pain of so many years leak away.  She would be empty and numb when
it was gone, and she must be given hope and purpose to fill her anew.

He thought now that he had a way to give her that.

TWO FULL DAYS PASSED before Kinson Ravenlock returned.  He walked from
the valley at sunset, striding out of the raw orange light generated by
the smoke and fire of Dechtera's great furnaces.  He was eager to
reach them, to give them his news, and he tossed off his dusty cloak
with a flourish and embraced them both enthusiastically.

"I have found the man we want," he announced, dropping down
cross-legged in the grass and accepting the aleskin Mareth passed
him.
"The very man, in my opinion."  His smile broadened, and he gave them
both a quick shrug.  "Unfortunately, he doesn't agree with me.
Someone will have to persuade him I'm right.  That's why I've come
back for you."

Bremen nodded and motioned to the aleskin.  "Drink, have something to
eat, and then tell us all about it."

Kinson put the aleskin to his mouth and tipped his head back.
West, the sun was sinking beneath the horizon, and the quality and
color of the light were changing rapidly as twilight descended.  In the
wake of its quicksilver transition, Kinson caught a glimmer of
something dark and worrisome in the old man's eyes.  Without speaking,
he glanced at Mareth.  She met his gaze boldly.

The Borderman lowered the aleskin and regarded them solemnly.
"Did something happen while I was gone?"

There was a moment of silence.  "We told stories to each other," Bremen
answered.  His smile was melancholy.  He looked at Mareth and then back
again at Kinson.  "Would you like to hear one of them?"

Kinson nodded thoughtfully.  "If you think there is time."

Bremen reached for Mareth's hand, and the girl gave it to him.
There were tears in her eyes.  "I think we should make time for this
one," the old man said.

And Kinson knew from the way he said it that he was right.

CHAPTER 23

URPROX SCREL SAT ALONE on the old wooden bench, hunched forward with his
elbows resting on his knees, carving knife in one hand, block of wood
in the other.  His hands moved deftly as he worked, turning the wood
this way and that, whittling with small flicks of his wrist, the
shavings flying out in front of him.  He was making some thing
wonderful, although he wasn't sure yet what it was.  The mystery was
part of the pleasure.  A block of wood always suggested certain
possibilities before he ever took a knife to it.  You just had to look
carefully enough to see what they were.  Once you had done that, the
job was half-finished.  The shaping allways seemed to take care of
itself.

It was evening in Dechtera, the light fading to hazy gray where the
furnaces did not glare with their hot white eyes.  The heat was
oppressive, but Urprox Screl was used to heat, so it didn't bother him
to sit there.  He could have stayed home with Mina and the children,
dinner complete, the day at its close, rocking on the long porch or
sitting out under the shade of that old hickory.  It was quiet there
and cool, his home removed from the city's center.  Unfortunately, that
was the problem.  He missed the noise and the heat and the stench of
the furnaces.
When he was working, he wanted them close by.  They had been a part of
his life for so long that it didn't seem right not to have them
there.

Besides, this was his place of business, same as always, same as it had
been for better than forty years.  It had been his father's place of
business before him.  Maybe it would be his son's-one or the other of
them.  When he worked, this is where he liked to be.  This is where he
belonged, where his sweat and toil had shaped his life, where his
inspiration and skill had shaped the lives of others.

It was a bold statement, he supposed, but he was a bold man.  Or mad,
depending on whom you asked.

Mina understood.  She understood everything about her husband, and that
was more than you could say for any other wife he knew.  The thought of
it made him smile.  It gave him a special feeling for Mina.
He began to whistle softly.

The people of the city passed down the street in front of Urprox Screl,
hurrying this way and that, busy little beavers en gaged in their
tasks.  He watched them surreptitiously from under the knit of his
heavy dark brow without letting them know he was looking.  Many of them
were friends-or what passed for friends these days.  Most had been
shopkeepers, tradesmen, artisans, or laborers for the same amount of
time as he had been a smith.  Most had admired him- his skill, his 
accomplishments, his life.  Some had believed that he embodied the heart
and soul of this city.

He sighed, and the whistling died away.  Yes, he knew them all, but
they paid little attention to him now.  If he caught some one's eye, he
might get a solemn nod or a desultory wave.  One or two might stop to
speak to him.  That was about the extent of it.  Mostly, they avoided
him.  Whatever was wrong with him, they didn't want it rubbing off on
them.

He wondered one more time why they couldn't just accept what he'd done
and let it go at that.

He stared down momentarily at the carving.  A dog running, swift and
strong, legs extended, ears flattened, head up.  He would give this one
to his grandson Arken, his oldest girl's boy.
He gave most of his carvings away, though he could have sold them had
he chosen to do so.  But money wasn't something he needed; he had
plenty of that and could get more if it became necessary.  What he
needed was peace of mind and a sense of purpose.  Sad to say, even two
years later, he was having trouble finding both.

He glanced over his shoulder momentarily at the building behind him, a
dark, silent presence amid the cacophony of the city.  In the growing
twilight, it cast its squarish shadow over him.  The great doors that
led to its interior were closed tonight-he hadn't bothered to open
them.  Sometimes he did, just because it made him feel more at home,
more a part of his work.  But lately it had depressed him to sit there
with the doors open and the interior dark and silent, nothing happening
after all those years of constant heat and noise and activity.
Besides, it only drew the curiosity seekers, suggesting to them the
possibility of things that would never happen.

He stirred the wood shavings with the toe of his boot.  Better to let
the past stay closed away, where it belonged.

Darkness fell, and he rose to light the torches that bracketed the
building's smaller side entry.  These would cast the light he needed to
continue his work.  He should go home, he knew.
Mina would be looking for him.  But there was a restlessness about him
that kept his hands moving and his thoughts adrift in the swell of the
night sounds that rose with the coming of the dark.  He could pick
those sounds out, all of them, could separate them as surely as the
shavings piled at his feet.  He knew them all so well-as he knew this
city and its people.  His knowledge comforted him.  Dechtera was not a
city for every one.  It was special and unique and it spoke with a
language of its own.  Either you understood what it was saying or you
didn't.
Either you were intrigued by what you heard or you moved on.

Lately, for the first time in his life, he was thinking that per haps
he had heard about as much of the city's language as he cared to.

He was contemplating what that meant, his carving momen tarily
forgotten, when the three strangers approached.  He didn't see them at
first, cloaked and hooded in the darkness, just a part of the crowd
that passed on the street before him.  But then they separated
themselves from its flow and came toward him, and there was no
mistaking their intent.  He was immediately curious-it was unusual for
anyone to approach him these days.  The hoods bothered him a little it
was awfully hot to be wrapped up so.  Were they hiding from
something?

He rose to meet them, a big, rawhoned man with heavy arms, a deep
chest, and wide, blocky hands.  His face was sur prisingly smooth for a
man his age, brown from the sun and strong-featured, his broad chin
thinly bearded, the black hair on his head rapidly receding from his
crown toward his ears and neck.  He set the knife and carving on the
bench behind him and stood waiting with his hands on his hips.  As the
trio slowed before him, the tallest pulled back his hood to reveal
himself.  Urprox Screl nodded in recognition.  It was the fellow who
had visited with him yesterday, the Borderman, come down out of
Varfleet, a quiet, intense man with a good deal more on his mind than
he was giving out.  He had purchased a blade from one of the
shopkeepers and come to compliment Urprox on his workmanship.
Ostensibly.  It felt as if there might be something more to the visit
than just that.  The Borderman had said he would be back.


"Good as your word, I see," Urprox greeted, reminded now of the other's
promise and wanting to take matters in hand early-his city, his home,
his rules.

"Kinson Ravenlock," the Borderman reminded him.

Urprox Screl nodded.  "I remember."

"These are friends who want to meet you."  The hoods came back.  A girl
and an old man.  They faced him squarely, but kept their backs to the
crowd of passersby.  "I wonder if we might speak with you for a few
minutes."

They waited patiently as he studied them, making up his mind.  It was
nothing he could put his finger on, but something about them bothered
him.  An uneasiness stirred inside, vague and indefinable.
There was an unmistakable sense of purpose about these three.  They
looked to have come a long way and to have endured some hardship.  He
felt certain the Borderman's question had been asked as a matter of
courtesy and not to offer a choice.

He smiled affably.  He was curious about them in spite of his
misgivings.  "What do you wish to speak to me about?"

Now the old man took charge, and the Borderman was quick to defer.
"We have need of your skills as a smith."

Urprox kept his smile in place.  "I am retired."

"Kinson says you are the best, that your work is the finest he has ever
seen.  He would not make that statement if it were not so.  He knows a
great deal about weapons and the artisans
who craft them.  Kinson has traveled to a good many places in the Four
Lands."

The Borderman nodded.  "I saw the shopkeeper's sword.  I have never
seen work like that, not anywhere.  You have unique talent."

Urprox Screl sighed.  "Let me save you the trouble of wasting any more
of your time.  I was good at what I did, but I don't do it anymore.  I
was a master smith, but those days are gone.
I am retired.  I don't do metalwork of any kind.  I don't do specialty
work, and I don't accept commissions.  I do wood carving, and that is
all I do."

The old man nodded, seemingly unfazed.  He glanced past Urprox to the
wooden bench and the carving that lay there, and asked, "Did you do
that?  May I have a look?"

Urprox shrugged and handed him the dog.  The old man studied it for a
long time, turning it over in his hands, tracing the shape of the
wood.

There was genuine interest in his eyes, 

"This is very good," he said
finally, handing it to the girl, who accepted it without comment.
"But not as good as your weapons work.  Your true skill lies there.  In
the shaping of metal.  Have you been carving wood long?"

"Since I was a child."  Urprox shifted his stance uneasily.
"What do you want from me?"

"You must have had a very compelling reason to go back to wood carving
after being so successful as a master smith," the old man pressed,
ignoring him.

Urprox felt his temper slip a notch.  "I did.  I had a very good
reason, and I don't want to talk about it with you."

"No, I don't suppose you do, but I am afraid that you must.
We need your help, and my task in coming here is to persuade you of
that."

Urprox stared at him, more than a little astonished at his candor.
"Well, at least you are honest about your intentions.  But now, of
course, I am forewarned of them and am prepared to reject any argument
you put forth.  So you really are wasting your time."

The old man smiled.  "You were already forewarned.  You are astute
enough to discern that we have traveled some distance to see you, and
that we must therefore consider you quite important."  The weathered
face creased deeper.  "Tell me, then.  Why did you give it all up?  Why
did you quit being a smith?  Why, when you had been one for so many
years?"

Urprox Screl's brow darkened.  "I got tired of it."

They waited for him to say more, but he refused to do so.  The old man
pursed his lips.  "I think it was probably more than that."

He paused a moment, and in that moment it seemed to Urprox as if the
old man's eyes turned white, as if they lost their color and their
character and became as blank and un readable as stone.  It felt as if
the old man was looking right through him.


"You lost heart," the other said softly.  "You are a gentle man with a
wife and children, and for all your physical strength you do not like
pain.  But the weapons you forged were causing pain, and you knew that
was happening and you detested it.  You grew weary of knowing, and you
decided enough was enough.
You had money and other talents, so you simply closed your shop and
walked away.  No one knows this but you and Mina.
No one understands.  They think you mad.  They shun you as they would a
disease."

The eyes cleared and fixed on him anew.  "You are an outcast in your
own city, and you do not understand why.  But the truth is you are a
man blessed with unique talent, and everyone who knows you or your work
recognizes it and cannot accept that you would waste it so
foolishly."

Urprox Screl felt something cold creep up his spine.  "You are entitled
to your opinion.  But now that you've given it, I don't wish to talk to
you anymore.  I think you should leave."

The old man looked off into the darkness, but he did not move from
where he stood.  The crowds had thinned behind him, and the night had
closed about.  Urprox Screl suddenly felt very alone and vulnerable.
Even this close to familiar surroundings, to people who knew him, and
to help if he should need it, he felt completely isolated.

The girl handed back the carving of the dog.  Urprox took it from her,
looking deep into her great dark eyes, drawn to her in a way he could
not explain.  There was something in the look she gave him that
suggested she understood what he had done.
He had not seen that look in anyone's eyes but Mina's.  It surprised
him to find it here, in the eyes of a girl who did not know him at
all.

"Who are you?"  he asked again, looking from one face to the other.

It was the old man who spoke.  "We are the bearers of a charge that
transcends all else.  We have come a long way to fulfill that charge.
Our journey has taken us to many places, and even though you are
important to its success, it will not end here.  You are but one piece
in the puzzle we must assemble.  We have need of a sword, Urprox Screl,
a sword unlike any other ever forged.  It requires the hands of a
master smith to shape it.
It will have special properties.  It is intended not to destroy, but to
save.  It will be both the hardest and finest work you have ever done
or will ever do."

The big man smiled nervously.  "Bold words.  But I don't think I
believe them."

"Because you do not want to forge another weapon in your lifetime.
Because you have left all that behind, and the pact you made with
yourself will be compromised if you relent now."

"That states it nicely.  I reached an end to that part of my life.
I swore I would never go back again.  I see no need to change my mind
for you."

"What if I told you," the old man said thoughtfully, "that you have a
chance to save thousands of lives by forging this sword we seek?
What if you knew that this was so?  Would that change your mind?"

"But it isn't so," Urprox insisted stubbornly.  "No weapon could
achieve that."

"Suppose that the lives of your wife and children were among those that
you would save by forging this sword.  Suppose that your refusal to
help us would cost them their lives."

The muscles in the big man's shoulders bunched.  "So my wife and
children are in danger now-is that how you wish me to see it?  You are
indeed desperate if you are reduced to making threats!"

"Suppose I told you that all of this will come to pass within the next
few years if you do not help us.  All."

Urprox experienced a whisper of self-doubt.  The old man seemed so
certain.  "Who are you?"  he demanded a final time.

The other stepped forward then, coming very close.  Urprox Screl could
see every seam in his weathered face, every stray hair on his graying
head and beard.  "My name is Bremen," the old man answered, his eyes
locking on the smith's.  "Do you know of me?"

Urprox nodded slowly.  It took every ounce of strength he possessed to
hold his ground.  "I have heard of you.  You are one of the Druids."

Again, the smile.  "Are you frightened by that?"

"No."

"Of me?"

The big man said nothing, his jaw clenched.

Bremen nodded slowly.  "You needn't be.  I would be your friend, though
it might seem otherwise.  It is not my intention to threaten you.  I
speak only the truth.  There is need for your talent, and that need is
real and desperate.  It extends the length and breadth of the Four
Lands.  This is no game we play.  We are fighting for the lives of many
people, and your wife and children are among them.  I do not exaggerate
or dissemble when I say that we are all they have left to defend
against what threatens."

Urprox felt his certainty waver anew.  "And what exactly is that?"

The old man stepped back.  "I will show you."

His hand rose and brushed at the air before Urprox Screl's bewildered
eyes.  The air shimmered and took life.  He could see the ruins of a
city, the buildings flattened into rubble, the ground steaming and
smoking, the air thick with ash and grit.
The city was Dechtera.  Its people all lay dead in the streets and
doorways.  What moved through the shadows picking at the bodies was not
human, but misshapen and perverse.  Something imagined-yet real enough
here.  Peal, and in the vision of Dechtera's destruction, all that
would survive.

The vision vanished.  Urprox shuddered as the old man materialized
once more, standing before him, eyes hard and set.
"Did you see?"  he asked quietly.  Urprox nodded.  "That was the future
of your city and its people.  That was the future of your family.  That
was all that remained.  But by the time that vision comes to pass,
everything north will already be gone.  The Elves and the Dwarves will
be destroyed.  The dark wave that inun dated them will have reached
here."

"These are lies!"  Urprox spoke the words quickly, out of anger and
fear.  He did not stop to reason.  He was incautious and headstrong in
his denial.  Mina and his children dead?  Everyone he knew gone?  It
wasn't possible!

"Harsh truths," Bremen said quietly.  "Not lies."

"I don't believe you!  I don't believe any of this!"

"Look at me," the old man commanded softly.  "Look into my eyes.
Look deep."

Urprox Screl did so, unable to do otherwise, compelled to obey.
He stared into Bremen's eyes and watched them turn white once more.  He
felt himself drawn into a liquid pool that embraced and swallowed
him.

He could feel himself join with the old man in some inexplicable way,
become a part of him, become privy to what he knew.  There were flashes
of knowledge given in the moments of that joining, truths that he
could neither challenge nor avoid.  His life was suddenly revealed to
him, all that had been and might be, the past and the future come
together in a montage of images and glimpses that were so terrifying
and so overwhelming that Urprox Screl clutched at himself in despair.

"Don't!"  he whispered, shutting his eyes against what he was seeing.
"Don't show me any more!"

Bremen broke the connection, and Urprox staggered back a step before
straightening.  The cold that had begun at the base of his spine had
now seeped all the way through him.  The old man nodded.  Their eyes
locked.  "I am finished with you.  You have seen enough to understand
that I do not lie.  Do not question me further.  Accept that my need is
genuine.  Help me do what I must."

Urprox nodded, his big hands clenching into fists.  The ache in his
chest was palpable.  "I will listen to what you have to say," he
allowed grudgingly.  "That much, at least, I can do."

But he knew, even as he spoke the words, that he was going to do much
more.

SO BREMEN SAT HIM DOWN on the bench and then took a seat next to him.
They became two old friends discussing a business proposition.
The Borderman and the girl stood silently before them, listening.  On
the street beyond, the people of the city passed by unknowing.  No one
approached.  No one even glanced his way.  Perhaps they could not even
see him anymore, Urprox thought.  Perhaps he had been rendered
invisible.  For as Bremen spoke, he began to recognize how much magic
was at work in this business.

Bremen told him first of the Warlock Lord and his invasion of the other
lands.  The Northland was gone, the Eastland in vaded, the Westland at
risk.  The Southland would be last, and by then, as the vision had
shown, it would be too late for all of them.  The Warlock Lord was a
creature of magic who had managed to survive beyond mortal life and
had summoned creatures of supernatural strength to aid his cause.  No
ordinary weapon would destroy him.  What was needed was the sword that
Urprox would forge, a thing of magic as well as iron, a blade that
combined the skills and knowledge of both master smith and Druid, of
science and magic alike.

"It must be strong in both ways," Bremen explained.  "It must be able
to withstand the worst of what will be sent to destroy it, whether iron
or magic.  The forging must make it as invulnerable as possible, and
that will be difficult.  Science and magic.
You will provide the former, I the latter.  But your work is 
paramount, because if the sword lacks the physical characteristics needed
to sustain it, the magic I supply cannot hold."

"What do you know of forging metals?"  Urprox asked, interested now in
spite of himself.

"That metals must be combined and tempered just so for the alloy to
gain the necessary strength."  Bremen reached into his robes and
brought forth the formula that Cogline had supplied.
"This is what we will need to achieve the desired result."

Urprox took the sheet of paper and studied it carefully.  He nodded as
he read, thinking, Yes, this is the right combination of metals, the
proper mix of firings.  Then he stopped, smiling broadly.
"These temperatures!  Have you looked closely at what this mix
requires?  No one has seen such temperatures in the firing of metal
since the old world was destroyed!  The furnaces and the formulas alike
were lost forever!  We haven't the means to achieve what is asked!"

Bremen nodded calmly.  "What heat will your forge with stand?  How
strong a firing?"

The smith shook his head.  "Any amount.  Whatever heat we can
generate.
I built the furnace myself, and it has layered walls of stone and earth
to insulate and preserve it.  But that is not the problem.  The problem
is with the fuel.  We lack a fuel strong enough to produce the amount
of heat this formula requires!
You must know that!"

Bremen took the formula from his hands and slipped it back inside his
robes.  "We need maintain the higher temperatures for only a short
period of time.  I can help with that.  I possess the means that you
lack.  Do you understand?"

Urprox did.  The old man would use magic to generate the necessary
heat.  But was that possible?  Was his magic strong enough?  The
temperatures needed were enormous!  He shook his head, staring at the
other doubtfully.

"Will you do it?"  Bremen asked quietly.  "One last firing of the
forge, one final molding of metals?"

The master smith hesitated, come back briefly to his old self in these
past few moments, to the man he had been for so many years, intrigued
by the challenge of forging this weapon, impelled by consideration for
the safety of his family and his neighbors, of his city and his land.
There were reasons to do what the old man asked, he admitted.  But
there were reasons to refuse as well.

"We need you, Urprox," the Borderman said suddenly, and the girl nodded
silently in agreement.  All of them waited for his response, expectant
and determined.

Well, he thought, his wood carving was not of the same quality as his
metalwork, that much was true.  Never had been.
It was an escape, though he might argue otherwise.  Come right down to
it, it was foolish to claim that it was of any real importance.  So
what would it mean for him to cast one last blade, a weapon that might
have significance beyond any other he had ever forged, that might be
used in a way that would save lives?
Did the old man lie about this?  He could not be absolutely sure, but
he did not think so.  He had been able to tell something of men, as he
could of metal, all his life.  He felt it was so here.

This man, Druid or no, evinced honor and integrity.  He believed in his
cause, and it was clear that he was convinced that Urprox Screl should,
too.

The big man shook his head, smiled, and shrugged.  "Ah, well.  If it
will get you out of my life, I will make you your sword."

THEY TALKED until late into the night of what was needed to undertake
the forging.  Urprox would have to bring in fuel to fire the furnace
and metals to mix the alloy.  It would take several days to bring the
temperature up to the level necessary to begin the process.
The forging itself could be done fairly quickly if Bremen's magic was
sufficient to raise the heat beyond that.  The mold for the sword was
already cast, and only small modifications were needed to give it the
shape that Bremen required.

Bremen showed him the medallion he had hidden within his robes, showed
him the strange, compelling image of the hand clenched about the
burning torch.  It was called the Eilt Druin, the Druid told him, and
it must be embedded in the hilt of the sword when it was cast.  Urprox
shook his head.  It would melt from the heat, he advise , the workmanship
 too fine to  survive the tempering.  But the old man shook his head
and told him not to worry.  The Eilt Druin was forged of magic, and the
magic would protect it.  The magic, he intoned, would give the sword
the power necessary to destroy the War lock Lord.

Urprox Screl didn't know if he believed this or not, but he accepted it
at face value.  It was not his problem, after all, to de cide if the
sword would do what the Druid intended.  It was his job to forge it in
accordance with the formula provided and the science he possessed, so
that it would emerge from the firings as strong as possible.  Three
days, then, to prepare.  But there were other considerations as well.
Everyone knew that he was out of business.
The moment materials began to arrive, there would be questions.  The
moment the furnace was fired, the questions would increase.  And what
of the attention that the forging of the sword itself would draw?

But the old man seemed unconcerned with this, telling Urprox Screl not
to worry, simply to go about his business and to concentrate on
readying himself and his forge for the task at hand.  While
preparations were under way, he and his companions would remain close
at hand and deal with whatever interest the population of the city
might evince.

So it began.  They separated that night with a handshake to bind their
agreement, the three outlanders more satisfied with the result than
Urprox Screl, but the smith was excited and in trigued by the task set
to him in spite of his misgivings.  He went home to his family and in
the slow hours of the early morning sat with Mina at the kitchen table
and told her of his decision.  As it always was between them, he held
nothing back.
She listened to him and questioned him, but she did not advise him to
change his mind.  It was for him to make the choice, she said, because
he understood better than she what was being asked of him and how he
would live with it afterward.  For her part, it seemed as if he had
been shown good reason to accept the work offered him, and judgment of
the men and the girl should be based on his own evaluation of their
character and not on the rumors and gossip of others.

Mina, as always, understood better than anyone.

Hard coal, mined in the Eastland borders and shipped west, filled the
fire pit and the fuel bins of the forge by midday next The doors to the
building were thrown open, and the first firing began.  The forge was
lit and the heat brought up.  Metals arrived, requisitioned in
accordance with Cogline's formula.
Molds were uncovered and brought out for cleaning.  Disdaining help,
Urprox worked alone in the shadowy, hot interior of the building.
Help was not necessary.  He had constructed his forge so that winches
and pulleys guided by a single hand could move everything required from
one corner to the other.  As for the inevitable crowds that gathered to
see what he was about, they did not intrude as much as he had feared.
Instead, they contented themselves simply with watching.  There was a
rumor given out-from where, it was not certain-that Urprox Screl was
firing the furnace not because he was back in business as a smith, but
because he had a buyer for the forge who wanted to make certain that it
would work as advertised before he laid down his money.  The owner, it
was whispered, was from the deep Southland, a man who was visiting with
his young wife and aged father.  They could be seen from time to time
at Screl's side, or by the entry to the forge, or about the streets of
the city, coming and going in pursuit of further information 
concerning their intended acquisition, trying to determine if the purchase
they sought was a reasonable one.

For Urprox, the time passed swiftly.  His doubts, so strong that first
night, vanished with the unexpected exhilaration he experienced at
preparing for the challenge of this unusual firing.  No smith living
had ever worked with magic in the Four Lands-at least not to anyone's
knowledge-and it was impossible not to be excited by the prospect.  He
knew in his heart, just as Kinson Ravenlock had acknowledged, that he
was the best at his trade, that he had mastered the skill of shaping
metal into blades as no one else had.  Now he was being asked to go
beyond what he had ever attempted, to create a weapon that would be
better than his best, and he was enough of a craftsman to appreciate
the extent of the confidence being placed in his talent.  He still did
not know if the blade would accomplish the task that Bremen had set for
it, if it would forestall in some way the invasion the old man had
warned against, if it could in any way protect against the threat of
the Warlock Lord.  These were questions for others.  For Urprox Screl,
there was only the challenge of applying his skills in a way he had
never dreamed possible.

So wrapped up was he in his preparations that he was two days into them
before he remembered that there had been no mention at all of
payment-and in the next instant realized that it made no difference,
that payment in this case was not important.

He had forgotten nothing in the two years since he had closed down the
forge, and it was rewarding to discover that he still knew exactly what
to do.  He went about his business with confidence and determination,
building the heat in the fuel pit,
measuring its potency with small tests that melted metals of varying
hardness and consistency.  Additional fuels and materials that he had
requisitioned arrived and were stored.  The Druid, the Borderman, and
the girl stopped by to study his progress and disappeared again.  He
did not know where they went when they left him.
He did not know how closely they monitored his progress.  They spoke to
him only occasionally, and then it was the old man who did most of the
talking.  Now and then he would question his commitment to this task,
to his belief in the old man's tale of the destruction that
threatened.
But the questions were momentary and fleeting.  By now he was like a
run away wagon, rolling ahead with such speed that nothing could slow
him.  The work itself was all that mattered.  He was surprised at how
much he had missed it.  The acrid smell of fuel as it was consumed in
the flames, the clanging of raw metals on their way to the crucible,
the sear of the fire against his skin, the rise of ash and smoke from
the furnace chimney-they were old friends come to greet him on his
return.  It frightened him to think how easily he had abandoned his vow
not to go back into his trade.  It frightened him even more to think
that this time he might not be able to walk away.

On the third night, late into the evening, the three came to him for
the last time-the Druid Bremen, the Borderman Kinson Ravenlock, and the
girl whose name he never did learn, The forge was ready, and they
seemed to know this without being told, arriving after sunset and
greeting him in a manner that indicated they had come to witness the
fulfillment of his promise.  The metals they needed for the firing
were laid out, the molds set open and ready for the pour, and the
winches, pulleys, chains, and crucibles that would guide the raw
material through the various stages of preparation carefully set in
place.
Urprox knew the old man's formula by heart.  Everything was ready.

They sat together for a time in the shadows of the forge, waiting for
the city to quiet and its people to sleep, letting the heat wash over
them and the night draw on.  They spoke little, listening to the
sounds, lost in their separate thoughts.  The populace of the city
churned and bustled like waves washing against the rocks of some
distant shore, always just out of sight.
Midnight approached, and the crowds drifted to the ale houses and
pleasure dens, and the streets began to clear.

The old man rose then and took Urprox Screl's hand in his own and held
it.  "You must do your best work this night," he advised firmly.
"You must, if we are to succeed."

The smith nodded.  He was stripped to the waist and is muscles
glistened with sweat.  "I will do what is needed.  Don't you forget to
do the same."

Bremen smiled at the rejoinder, the seams of his aged face etched deep
by the light that seeped from the furnace, back where the fires flared
through cracks in the bin door.  "You're not afraid of this at all, are
you?"

"Afraid?  Of fire and metal?  Of shaping one more weapon after
thousands, even if it's to be forged with magic?"  Urprox Screl shook
his head.  "I should sooner be frightened of the air I breathe.  What
we do here tonight is no different than what I have done all my life.
A variation perhaps, but no more.  Besides, what is the worst that can
befall me?  That I fail?  That won't happen."

"The magic is always unpredictable.  Even if you are steady in the
application of your smith's skill, the magic might not prove
sufficient."

The smith studied the old man for a moment, then laughed slowly.
"You don't believe that.  You are as much a craftsman as I. You would
die before you let the magic fail you."

There was a long silence as the two faced each other, the heat of the
forge washing over them, its light flickering raggedly against their
lined faces.  "You are taking a final measure of me," the smith
observed quietly.  "Don't bother.  It's not necessary.  I am ready for
this."

But the old man shook his head.  "The measure I take is of what this
will do to you.  You cannot work with magic and come away unchanged.
Your life will never be the same after to night.  You must sense
that."

Urprox Screl gave the old man a slow, ironic smile.  "I depend upon
it.
Let me confess something.  Save for Mina and my children, I am sick of
my life.  I am tired of what I have become.  I didn't understand that
until you came.  Now I understand it all too well.  I would at this
moment welcome any change."

He felt the other's eyes probe him for a moment, felt their weight
settle somewhere deep within, and he wondered if he had spoken too
rashly.

Then the old man nodded.  "Very well.  Let's begin."

THERE WOULD BE STORIES of what happened that night for years afterward,
tales passed from mouth to mouth that would take on the trappings of
legend.  They would come from various sources, but all would have their
genesis in the glimpses caught by passersby who paused for a momentary
look at what was taking place within Urprox Screl's great forge.  The
doors stood open to the night so that fresh air could be drawn in and
stale heat vented out, and those who forced themselves close enough
were witnesses to visions they later declared to have been born out of
madness.

A sword was forged by Urprox Screl that night, but the manner of its
shaping would be forever in dispute.

It was agreed who was present.  They passed through the smoky,
ash-laden air like wraiths, bent down against the heat and glare of the
forge, surging upward momentarily to carry out a task in response to
the demands of the casting, then ducking away again.  There was the
smith, the acknowledged master of his trade, the man who had given up
his work for two long years and then, for a single night, without a
word to anyone, gone back to it.  There was the old man cloaked in his
black robes, the one who seemed at times almost ethereal, at times as
hard and certain as stone.  And there were the Borderman and the young
woman.  Each had a role to play.  The smith and the old man worked
shoulder to shoulder in the forging of the weapon.  The younger man
served as their helper, acting on command to fetch this or carry that,
lending his strength and weight where it was needed.  The girl stood by
the door and made certain that no one tried to enter or linger too long
to watch.  Strangely enough, she was the one who made the strongest
impression.  Some said she changed shape to warn off those too curious,
becoming for an instant a netherworld beast or a moor cat.  Some said
she danced naked before the great furnace in a rite that aided in the
tempering.  Some said that if she but looked at you, your mind was
lost.  All agreed that she was more than what she appeared.

That there was magic in use that night was unquestioned.
The heat of the fire was too intense, its glare too strong, its 
explosions, when the molten ore spilled, too raw.  Some said they saw
green light lance from the old man's hands to feed the fires of the
forge, saw it give aid to the winches and pulleys in lifting the
casting away from the flames, watched it hone the blade af ter its
molding to smooth and polish its rough surface.  While the master smith
sent the various metals into the furnace, while he mixed and then
stirred the alloy, the old man muttered chants.  The metals would go
into the fire and come out again.
The molten one would be poured into a mold, tempered, and hammered out
again.  And each time the old man's magic would flare brightly in
support.  Oh, yes, there was magic employed in the forging and make no
mistake about it, the tale-tellers all agreed.

They spoke as well of an omnipresent image of a hand holding forth a
burning torch.  No one understood its significance, but it was a
specter that seemed to appear everywhere.
Some saw it on a medallion the old man took from beneath his robes.
Some saw it reflected by the fires of the forge on the walls of the
building.  Some saw it rise out of the fires them selves, newly born in
the pit's hottest core, a spirit risen from the dead.  But those who
saw it last saw it fixed to the handle of the great broadsword, fused
with the metal cast in the forge, the image burnished and glowing, the
hand clenched at the joinder of blade and pommel, the flame rising
upward along the blade toward its tip.

The casting, tempering, shaping, and honing of the sword took the
remainder of the night.  There were strange noises be yond the clang of
the smith's hammer and the whoosh of steam as the blade was cooled.

There were colors in the firing that no one had ever seen before, a
rainbow spectrum that transcended all experience of forging in a city
of smiths.  There were smells and tastes in the air that did not
belong, dark and forbidding.  The people who approached the forge that
night took quick, anxious looks, wondered at the fury of what they
witnessed, and then passed on.

By morning, the casting was complete and the three strangers were
gone.  No one saw them depart.  No one knew where they went.  The sword
was gone as well, and it was assumed that the trio had taken it with
them.  The forge stood empty in the dawn light, its fires cooling as
they would continue to cool for many days.  Some few who ventured too
close to the still open doors claimed that the earth sparked beneath
their feet as they tried to peer inside.  Magic, they whispered.  You
could tell.

Urprox Screl went home and did not come back.  The forge, he announced,
was closed once more.  He spoke to his friends and neighbors in a
normal way and assured them that nothing untoward had happened that
night.  He had cast a sword for potential buyers and they had gone
back to consider the value of their purchase.  He smiled when he said
it.  He seemed quite calm.  But his eyes had a haunted, faraway look.

Within a month he had left the city.  Mina and his children and
grandchildren all went with him, the entire family.  By then there were
rumors that he had sold himself body and soul to the dark things that
lived north.  No one wanted much to do with him.  It was just as well
that he was gone, everyone agreed.

No one knew where he went.  There were rumors, of course.
There were always rumors.

Some said he went north into the Borderlands and settled his family
there.  Some said he changed his name so that no one would know who he
was.

One man claimed, years later, to have seen him.  A trader of jewelry,
he traveled a broad stretch of the Four Lands in search of new
markets.
It was in a small village above the Rainbow Lake, he reported, that he
had come upon Urprox Screl.

Only he wasn't using the name Screl anymore.

He was using the name Creel.

CHAPTER 24

WIND AND RAIN TORE at the ramparts and walls of Stedden Keep, mirroring
the fury of the battle being fought at the castle's broad gates.  Twice
the Northland army had come against the walls and twice the Dwarves had
driven it back.  Now it was nearing midnight, the skies black, the air
thick with rain, the light so poor that it was impossible to see more
than a few feet save when lightning scorched the whole of the
Ravenshorn with its brilliant, momentary fire.

They were going to lose this one, too, Risca thought, striding down the
stairway from the main wall to the central court in search of Raybur.
Not that any of them had thought they wouldn't.  That they had held
this long was a minor miracle.
That they were still alive after weeks of fighting and retreating was a
bigger miracle still.  But they were running out of time and chances.
They had stalled for just about as long as they were able.
Where were the Elves?  Why hadn't they come?

For weeks after their escape from the Wolfsktaag, the Dwarves had
fought a holding action against the advancing Northlanders.  The army
of the Warlock Lord had smashed them at every turn, but still they had
gone on fighting.  They had been lucky in the Wolfsktaag they had
escaped with all most no loss of life.  Their luck hadn't lasted.  They
had fought a dozen engagements since, and in several their pursuers had
gotten the upper hand, through either perseverance or luck.
The Dwarves they had trapped, they had slaughtered on the spot.
Though the Eastlanders had fought back savagely and in flicted heavy
losses on their attackers, the losses seemed inconsequential.
Outnumbered and overmatched, the Dwarves simply had no chance against
an army of such strength and size.  They were brave and they were
determined, but they had been forced back steadily at every turn.

Now they were deep in the Ravenshorn and in danger of being dislodged
from that protectorate as well.  The Wolfsktaag and the Central Anar
were lost.  Culhaven had fallen early.  The Silver River from the
Rainbow Lake to the Cillidellan was in enemy hands.  There was no way
of knowing how much of the north was gone.  All of it, in all
probability.  If the Ravenshorn was taken as well, the Dwarves would be
forced to fall all the way back to the High Bens and the fortress at
Dun Fee Aran.
If that fell, too, they would have lost their last retreat.  They would
have no choice but to flee into the lands east, country into which they
had barely ventured.

And that was what was going to happen, Risca supposed.
Certainly they were not going to be able to hold here.  Stedden Keep
would fall by morning.  The outlying moats and pit traps had already
been crossed, and the Northlanders were building scaling ladders to
throw up against the walls.  The wind and the rain seemed to make no
difference to their efforts.  They were in the grip of something
stronger than the elements-a fear, a madness, a horror of the creature
commanding them.  Magic drove them on, dark and terrible, and perhaps
for them, in their present state, even death was preferable to facing
the consequences of failure.

Risca reached the bottom of the stairs and crossed out of the tower
into the courtyard.  The sounds of battle washed over him, a cacophony
that even the storm's fury could not surmount.  A battering ram
hammered at the gates, slamming into the portals with steady, mindless
insistence.  The gates shuddered, but held.  Atop the battlements, the
Dwarves sent arrows and spears flying into attackers massed so thick it
was virtually impossible to miss.  Oil fires climbed one wall, the
remains of an earlier attack the Dwarves had repulsed.
Defenders raced everywhere, trying to fill gaps in the line for which
there simply wasn't enough men.

Raybur appeared suddenly out of the chaos and seized his arm.
"We'll only be able to hold until they complete the ladders!"  he
shouted into the teeth of the wind, bringing his face close to the
younger man's.  "We can't do more, Risca!"

Risca nodded.  He felt worn and discouraged.  He was tired of running,
weary of being chased, and angry that it was about to happen all over
again.

"The tunnels are readied," he replied, not bothering to raise his
voice.  He had just returned from making sure their escape route was
safely in place.  Geften had scouted the tunnels himself, making sure
they were clear.  The Dwarves would flee through the mountain corridors
carved out of the rock at the rear of their fortress and emerge on the
east side of the peaks.
From there, they would descend into the densely forested valley beyond
and melt away once more.

Raybur pulled him from the court into the lee of the tower entry from
which he had emerged.  There he braced him, his eyes hard.

"What's happened to the Elves?"  the Dwarf King asked with tightly
controlled fury.

Risca shook his head.  "They would come if Tay Trefenwyd could find a
way to bring them.  Something's happened.  Something we don't know
anything about."

Raybur shook his bearded face in obvious distaste.  "Makes things sort
of one-sided in this war, doesn't it?  Us and no one else against an
army the size of that one out there?"  Shouts broke from the walls, and
defenders raced to fill a new breach.
"How much longer are we supposed to hold on?  We're losing more men
with every new battle, and we don't have that many to lose!"

His anger was understandable.  One of those lost already was his eldest
son.  Wyrik had fallen four days earlier, killed by a stray arrow.
They had been in retreat across the Anar and into the Ravenshorn,
intent on reaching the fortress at Stedden Keep.  The arrow had gone
through his throat and into his brain.  He had died instantly,
virtually before anyone had even noticed he was struck.  Raybur had
been next to him when it had happened, and had caught him in his arms
as he fell.

The two men stood looking at each other in the damp shadows of the
entry, both of them thinking of the boy's death, reading it in each
other's eyes.

Raybur looked away, disgusted.  "If we just had some word, some
assurance that help is coming He shook his head once more.

"Bremen would never desert us," Risca declared quietly, firmly.
"Whatever else happens, he will come."

Raybur's eyes narrowed.  "If he's still alive."

The words hung there, blade-sharp in the silence, accusatory, bleak
and despairing.

Then a terrible wrenching sound shattered their momentary consideration
of the prospect of the old man's death, a horrifying groan of metal
fastenings coming apart and wooden timbers giving way.
Both men knew at once what it was, but Raybur said it first.

"The gates!"

They sprinted from the doorway into the rain-soaked night.
A flash of lightning split the dark ceiling of the clouds.  Ahead the
main gates had buckled under the onslaught of the battering ram.
Already hinges were snapped and the crossbar splintered.  The Dwarves
were trying to shore up the sagging barrier with additional timbers,
but it was only a matter of time now before everything collapsed.  The
pounding of the ram had in tensified, and the cries of the attackers
had risen in response.
On the walls, the Dwarves drew back uncertainly from their de fensive
positions.

Fleer came running up to his father, his long hair flying.  "We have to
get everyone out!"  he shouted, his face pale and stricken.


"Do so!"  snapped Raybur in reply, his voice cold and harsh.
"Withdraw from the walls, through the fortress corridors, and into the
tunnels!  I have had enough of this!"

Fleer raced away, and an enraged Raybur wheeled about and strode toward
the gates, his rugged face flushed and set.  Seeing what he intended,
Risca went after him, grabbed his arm, and spun him about.

"No, Raybur," he declared.  "I will stand against this rush, not
you!"

"Alone?"  the king snapped, shaking free of the other's hand.

"How many were you planning on asking to stand with you?"  Risca's
retort was sharp and brittle.  "Now go!  Lead the army out!"

Rain ran down into their eyes, forcing them to blink rapidly, two
solitary figures locked in confrontation.  "This is madness!"  the king
hissed.

Risca shook his head.  "You are king, and you must keep yourself
safe.
What happens to the Dwarves if you fall?  Besides, I have the Druid
magic to protect me, which is more than you can say.  Go, Raybur!"

The right gate collapsed, splintering, then crumbling into rubble.
Dark forms surged toward the opening, weapons glinting.  Risca brought
up his hands, fingers crooked, the Druid magic summoned.
Raybur hesitated, then darted away, calling his commanders to come to
him, giving them their orders for a retreat.  The Dwarves scrambled
down from the battlements and raced for the tower doors and the safety
of the corridors be yond.  Already the men at the gates had fled.
Risca stood alone in the rain, waiting calmly.  It had been an easy
enough decision.  He was tired of running, of being chased.  He was
ready to stand and fight.  He wanted this chance.

When the first wave of attackers was at the opening, he sent the Druid
fire into them.  He burned everything in sight.  Flames climbed across
the rubble and consumed the front ranks of Northlanders before they
could even think to flee.  In the darkness beyond, the others fell
back, unable to withstand the heat.
Risca held the fire in place, then let it die.  The magic ran through
him in an exhilarating rush that swept aside fear and doubt, weariness
and pain.  It became for him, as it always did in the fury of battle,
the thing he lived for.

The battering ram resumed its pounding and the second gate collapsed,
widening the entry further.  But no one approached.  Risca glanced
upward through the curtain of rain.
The last of the Dwarves were coming down off the battlements and out of
the watchtowers.  In moments, he would be alone.
He should flee now, he knew.  He should run with the others, escape
while he could.  There was no point in remaining.  Yet he could not
make himself turn away.  It was as if he held the out come of this
battle in his hands, as if by standing where he was, by holding firm,
he could stop the onslaught that threatened to overwhelm them all.

Then something huge appeared in the charred, fire-scorched entry, a
shadowy form that lumbered into the gap.  Risca hesitated, waiting to
see what it was.  The dark shape hove into view, coming into the pale,
uncertain light of the dying Druid fire.  It was a creature out of
Brona's netherworld, come out of hiding with the fall of night, a thing
of ooze and slime, of spikes and armored plates, of heavy limbs and
massive body.  It stood upright, but it was scarcely human, bent down
as if by the weight of its own ugliness, yellow eyes lit by its killing
need.  It caught sight of the Druid and slowed, turning to face him.
It carried a huge club, both clawed hands wrapped around its grip.

"Well, now," Risca breathed out slowly.

The creature stood alone momentarily in the gap, then trudged slowly
across the burning rubble.  No one else appeared, although Risca could
hear the Northlanders scrambling, bringing up what scaling ladders they
had to place against the unmanned walls, massing in the darkness for
the rush that would sweep them into Stedden Keep.

Meanwhile, this creature is sent to challenge me, Risca thought,
knowing it could be for nothing less.  Do they think I will not stand
against it?  Do they test me to see what sort of power I possess, what
strength of will?  What is the reason for this nonsense?

He could not answer any of these questions, of course.  And now the
monster was coming for him, pushing aside debris and bodies as it
descended to the court out of the gap, lantern eyes fixed on the
Druid.

They seek to trap me, the Druid thought suddenly.  A diversion to
distract me, a foil for my magic, and then they will come for me in
force.  The arrogance of it made him smile.

The netherworld creature lumbered toward him, picking up speed.
The club lifted before it, both a shield and a weapon.
There was still time to flee, but Risca held his ground.  There were
Northlanders watching.  They knew who he was and they were waiting to
see how he would react.  He would give them something to remember.


When the creature was within two dozen feet, Risca brought up his
battle-axe, gripped it in both hands, whirled about to gain momentum,
and sent the gleaming blade flying at the monster.  The beast was
right on top of him by then, rushing to the attack, and had no chance
to deflect the blow.  The axe struck the heavy-browed forehead and
split it apart with a grating of metal on bone.  The force of the blow
snapped the massive head back.  Blood poured down the ruined face, a
black ichor that filled the creature's gaping maw.  The beast dropped
to its knees, already dead, and began to topple forward.

Risca was already drawing back, racing for the safety of the door, when
something moved in the shadows to either side and he threw up his magic
instinctively.  The sudden glare of the flames illuminated the handful
of Skull Bearers that slunk from the shadows, dark-winged and red-eyed
as they sought to close on him.  Risca gritted his teeth in disgust.
They had been quicker than he thought, coming over the wall while he
obligingly waited on their decoy.  He darted left at the closest of
them, sending the Druid fire hammering into it.  The winged hunter fell
back, hissing in fury, and red fire exploded in front of Risca as he
sought to gain the tower entry.  Some thing slammed into him, knocking
him sprawling-one of the Bearers, claws slashing.  Risca rolled free
and came back to his feet.  Steam rose out of the places where the fire
had burned, mingling with the rain and mist.  Thunder rumbled and
cracked with new fury.  Cries of glee lifted as the Northlanders surged
through the unprotected gap into the courtyard be hind him.

Another of the Skull Bearers attacked, a sudden dark lunge that he only
barely avoided.  Spears and arrows flew all about him.  He was so
stupid, delaying like this!  The thought came and went in a flash.  He
threw shards of Druid fire to either side and sprinted through weapons
and teeth and claws for the doorway.  He did not look back, knowing
what he would find, afraid that it would freeze him where he stood.  He
threw back another of the Bearers, this one flinging itself in front of
him in an effort to slow his escape.  In desperation, he sent a wash of
Druid fire in all directions, forcing back the enemies seeking to
close, and he ran the last few yards to the entry as if on fire himself
and catapulted through the open door.

Tumbling into the dark, he was back on his feet in an instant and
racing ahead.  It was pitch dark within the castle corridors, the
torches all extinguished, but he knew Stedden Keep and did not require
light to find his way.  He heard the pursuit that came after him, and
when he had gone the length of the first corridor, he turned long
enough to fire the passageway from end to end.  It was enough to slow
them, no more.  But that was all he needed.

Moments later, he was through a massive, iron-plated door that he
slammed shut and barred against further pursuit.  They would not catch
him now.  Not this night.  But he had come too close to discount the
possibility that next time he might not be so lucky.

He brushed away the blood that ran into his eyes, feeling the sting of
the gash in his forehead.  He was not badly hurt.
Time enough to deal with it later.  Raybur and the others would be
waiting somewhere back in the tunnels.  Risca knew the Dwarf King too
well to think he would abandon him.  Friends didn't do that.

He swallowed against the dryness in his throat.

What then, he wondered bleakly, of Tay Trefenwyd and the Elves?

NIGHT LAY OVER ARBORLON, a soft, warm blanket of darkness.
No rain fell here as it did farther east.  Jerle Shannara stood at a
front window of the summerhouse and waited for dawn.  He had not slept
at all that night, beset by doubts whose roots he could trace to the
loss of Tay Trefenwyd, haunted by the possibility of what might have
been and what must now surely be.
He was on the summit of a climb that had begun some weeks earlier and
would culminate with the arrival of morning, and he could not shake the
despair he felt at knowing that circum stance and fortune had
determined his fate in ways he could never have foreseen and could not
now change.

"Come to me, love," Preia Starle called to him from the darkened hall,
standing with her arms wrapped protectively about her body.

"I was thinking," he replied distantly.

She walked over to him and put her arms about his waist, holding him
against her.  "You think too much lately."

It was true, he supposed.  It hadn't been that way before, not when Tay
had been alive, not before the coming of the Warlock Lord and the
misery he had visited on the Elves.  He had been freer then, unfettered
by responsibilities or obligations of any real significance, his life
and his future his own, all the possibilities in the world his to
choose from.  How quickly it had all changed.

He lifted one great hand and placed it over hers.  "I still do not want
to be king."

But king he would be at first light.  He would be crowned at sunrise in
the tradition of Elven Kings since the time of faerie.
It was decided now, determined by the events that had begun with the
assassination of Courtann Ballindarroch and culminated in the death of
his last son.  For weeks the Elves had held out hope that the king's
heir would return from his ill-advised search for his father's
murderers.  But Alyten was a brash, foolish boy, and should never have
gone looking for the trouble he found.  The Northlanders were waiting
for him, hoping he would seek them out.  They let him stumble on them,
drew him on, ambushed him, and killed him.  Those with him who 
survived, a small number only, had brought him home.  He was the last
grown heir to the throne of the Ballindarroch family, and Jerle
Shannara's last hope that the Elven people would not turn instead to
him.

They did so immediately, of course.  Many had never wanted Alyten as
ruler in the first place.  The Northlanders threatened anew, claiming
the whole of the Streleheim, closing off all contact with other lands
and their peoples.  An invasion of the Westland would come soon-of that
there was little doubt.  It wanted only the return of the Warlock Lord,
who had gone east to attack the Dwarves.  Elven Hunters sent as
scouts had been able to determine that much.  Still the High Council
would not act, awaiting Alyten's return, awaiting a formal declaration
that he would be king.  Now Alyten was gone, and there remained only
the two grandchildren, too small to rule, too young even to appreciate
the enormity of what they faced.
Should a regent serve in their stead?  Should they rule with the help
of advisors?  The feeling was immediate and strong that neither
solution was sufficient to forestall the disaster that threatened, and
that Jerle Shannara, as the king's first cousin and the most
experienced fighter and strategist in the Westland, was the only
hope.

Even so, the debate on this matter might have gone on in definitely if
not for the urgency of the circumstances and the determination of Preia
Starle.  She had come to jerle almost at once after Alyten's body had
been returned, when the debate was so fierce that it threatened to
divide the Elven people irreparably.

"You cannot let that happen," she had told him.  It was night, another
slow, sleepy eve when the day's heat still lingered thick and pasty at
the corners of the mouth and eyes.  "You are the best hope of the Elven
people, and you know it.  We have to fight if we are to survive,
Jerle.
The Northlanders will give us no choice.  When the time comes, who else
but you will lead us?  If you are to lead, then do so as king."

"My right to be king will be questioned forever!"  he had snapped,
tired of the discussion, sick at heart of the need for it.

"Do you love me?"  she had asked suddenly.

"You know that I do."

"And I love you as well.  So heed me now.  Make me your wife.
Make me your life's partner and helpmate, your closest confidante and
forever friend.  I am these things to you already, so the step that you
must take is a small one.  Bond with me in the eyes of the Elven
people.  Tell the High Council that you want to be king, that you and I
will adopt those two small boys who have lost their family and make
them our sons.  They have no one else.  Why should they not have us?
It will stop the talk.
It will end the objections.  It will give the boys the chance to
succeed you as king when they are grown.  It will bind up the wounds
caused by the deaths of all the other Ballindarrochs and let the Elven
people get on with the business of surviving!"

So it had come to pass.  The strength of her insistence had swayed him
when nothing else could.  He would wonder at it afterward, at the
simplicity of the solution, at Preia Starle's remarkable resolve.  He
would have married her anyway, he told himself.  He did love her and
want her as his wife.  She was his closest friend, his confidante, his
lover.  The Elves preferred a king with heirs and the Ballindarroch
family had been well liked, so there was support for the adoption of
the two boys.
The acclaim for jerle to be crowned king was overwhelming.

Wrapped in Preia's embrace, he looked out into the night,
remembering.
How far he had come in so little time.

"Do you want children of your own, Preia?"  he asked her suddenly.

There was silence as she mulled the matter over-or at least her
answer.
He did not try to see her face.

"I want my life with you," she said finally.  "For the moment, it is
difficult to think of anything else.  When the Elves are safe again,
when the Warlock Lord is destroyed .  . ."  She paused, giving him a
long, steady look.  "Are you asking me if blood ties make a difference
in my commitment to the boys we have agreed to take as our own?  They
do not.  If we have no other children, the boys will do.  They will be
ours as if born to us.
Are you satisfied?"

He nodded without speaking, thinking of how their relationship had
evolved, how dramatically it had changed with Tay's death.  He had
pondered for a long time her admission that she might have loved his
friend, that she might even have gone with him if he had asked.  It did
not bother him as much as perhaps it should.  He had loved Tay himself,
and now that he was dead it was hard to begrudge him anything.

"You will sit on the High Council," he told her quietly.
"Vree Erreden will sit as well.  When I am able to do so, I will make
him First Minister.  Do you approve?"

She nodded.  "You have come a long way from your old opinion of the
locat, haven't you?"

He shrugged.  "I will ask that the Elven army be mobilized for a march
east-no, I will insist on it."  His shoulders bunched with his
determination.  "I will do what Tay would have done.  I will see that
the Dwarves are not abandoned.  I will see that the Black Elfstone
reaches Bremen.  If I fail as king, then it will not be because I
lacked courage or commitment."

It was a brash, uncompromising declaration, a buttress against the
doubts and uncertainties that still lurked at the edges of his
confidence.  Preia would know.  He could not afford hesitation.  The
line between success and failure, between life and death, would be a
thin one.

Preia pressed herself against him.  "You will do what you must, what
you know is right.  You will be king, and there will be no regrets.
You will lead your people and keep them safe.  It is your destiny,
Jerle.  It is your fate.  Vree has seen it in his visions.
You must see that it is true."

He took a long moment before answering.  "I see mostly that I lack
another choice and so must accept this one.  And I think always of
Tay."

They stood without speaking for a long time.  Then Preia led him
through the darkness of the summerhouse to their bed and held him until
morning.

CHAPTER 25

ANXIOUS TO MAKE- UP for the time they sensed they had already lost, the
bearers of Urprox Screl's newly forged sword purchased horses and rode
north through the Southland toward the border country and the Silver
River.  They traveled steadily, stopping only for food and rest, and
they did not say much to one another.  Memories of the forging of the
sword dominated their thoughts, the images so vivid that days later it
seemed as if the event had happened only moments ago.  That the effects
of the magic invoked had transcended the forging itself was
undeniable.

In some way, per haps differently for each, the creation of the
talisman had trans formed them.  They were newly born, the forging
having reshaped them as surely as it had cast the blade itself, and
they were left to puzzle out what form they had taken.

It was given to Kinson Ravenlock to bear the sword on their journey
back.  Bremen entrusted it to him as soon as they had departed the
city, compelled to do so by a need that the Druid could not quite
manage to hide from his friend.  It was almost as if he could not bear
the weight of the weapon, could not tolerate the feel of it.  It was a
strange, disturbing moment, but Kinson took the sword without a word
and strapped it across his back.  Its weight was nothing to him, though
its importance to the future of the Races was impossible to ignore.
But, not having witnessed for himself the visions at the Hadeshorn,
Kinson was not burdened by a Druid's insight into what that future
might be, and so the sword did not have the same power
over him.  He bore it as he would any weapon, and while his mind
retraced endlessly the moments of its creation, it was not the past
with which he was concerned, but the present.

At night, sometimes, he would take the blade out and examine it.
He would not have done so if Mareth had not asked it of him on the
first night out, her curiosity stronger than her trepidation, her own
ruminations on what had transpired at the forge fueling her need to
look closer at what they had made.
Bremen had not objected, though he had risen and walked off into the
dark, so Kinson had seen no reason not to accede to Mareth's request.
Together, they had held the blade up to the firelight and examined
it.
It was a wondrous piece of work, per fectly balanced, smooth and sleek
and gleaming, so light it could be wielded by a single hand in spite of
its size and length.
The Eilt Druin had been fused into the handle where the crossguard was
set, the flame from the clenched hand rising along the blade as if to
burn to its tip.  No flaw appeared on the polished surface, a virtual
impossibility in a normal forging, but facilitated in this instance by
the nature of Cogline's formula and the use of Bremen's magic.

It occurred to Kinson after several days of bearing the sword that part
of his lack of awe for the blade's worth lay in the fact that Bremen
did not seem to know yet what the talis man was supposed to do.
Certainly, it was meant to destroy the Warlock Lord-but how?  The
nature of the magic with which it was imbued remained a mystery, even
to the Druid.  It was in tended for an Elven warrior-that much the
vision of Galaphile had revealed.  But what was the warrior to do with
the blade?
Was he to wield it as he would an ordinary weapon?  Given the nature of
the Warlock Lord's power, that did not seem likely.

There must be a magic to it that Brona could not withstand, that could
overcome all of the rebel Druid's defenses and de stroy him.  But what
could that magic be?  There was some magic in the Eilt Druin, it was
said, but Bremen had never been able to discover what that magic was,
and whatever it was, it did not appear to have been used even once in
the long span of his lifetime.

Bremen admitted this to both the Borderman and the girl, and he did so
not reluctantly but with a mix of puzzlement and
curiosity.  The mystery of the sword's magic was not an obstacle for
the Druid, but a challenge that he confronted wit the same
determination he had evinced in his search for the blade's maker.
After all, it was not reasonable to believe that the forging alone was
sufficient to imbue the sword with the magic it required.  Even the
fusing of the Eilt Druin did not seem enough.  Something further was
needed ' and he must discover what it was.  He took reassurance, he
confided to Kinson at one point, in the fact that they had come as far
and accomplished as much as they had.  Because of that, he believed
everything they sought was within reach.

It was a dubious premise to Kinson's way of thinking, but Bremen had
accomplished a good many things in their time together through sheer
strength of belief, so there was no reason to start questioning him
now.  If the sword had magic that could destroy the Warlock Lord,
Bremen would discover what that magic was.  If a confrontation was
fated, Bremen would find a way to make the result favor their cause.

So they traveled out of the deep Southland and back into the
Battlemound, heading for the Silver River.  Their destination, the old
man advised his companions, was the Hadeshorn.
There he would pay yet another visit to the spirits of the dead and
attempt to ascertain what they must do next, Along the way, they would
try to determine what had become of the Dwarves.  The weather was hot
and sultry as they rode, and they were forced to stop frequently to
rest themselves and their mounts.  Time crawled with weary
reluctance.
They saw nothing of the conflict they knew was taking place farther
north, encountered no signs of a Northland presence, and heard no
mention from those they passed of anything untoward.  Yet there was a
persistent, unsettling suspicion among the three that they had somehow
strayed too far from where they had begun their journey and that on
their return they would find too many chances irretrievably lost.

Late in the afternoon of their first day of travel through the
Battlemound, Bremen called a halt while several hours of light yet
remained and took them out of the flats and into the Black Oaks.  Once
again, they had been navigating a precarious passage between the two
quagmires, keeping just clear of the dangers of each.  Now he forsook
caution and steered them directly into the forbidden forest.  Kinson
was alarmed, but held his tongue.  Bremen would have a good reason for
making this detour.

They rode just into the fringe, barely a hundred feet, the sun bleached
lowlands still visible through breaks in the trees, the darker regions
of the forest still ahead of them, then dismounted.  Leaving Mareth to
hold the horses, the Druid took Kinson into a stand of ironwood,
examined the trees thoughtfully for a time, then found a branch that
suited him and ordered Kinson to cut it.  The Borderman obliged without
comment, using his broadsword to hack through the toughened wood.
Bremen had him lop off the ancillary branches and twigs, then took the
rough-cut length of wood in his gnarled hands and nodded his
approval.
They retraced their steps to the horses, remounted, and rode out of the
forest once more.  Kinson and Mareth exchanged puzzled glances, but
kept silent.

They camped a little farther on in a vale that was not much more than a
depression amid the trees.  There Bremen had Kinson further shave the
ironwood branch to form a staff.
Kinson worked at the task for the better part of two hours while the
other two prepared dinner and saw to the animals.
When he had done as much with the wood as he could, when he had
smoothed down the bumps and knots where the smaller branches had been
cut away, Bremen took it from him once again.  The company of three was
seated about a small fire, the day faded to a few faint streaks of
brightness west, the night creeping in on the heels of lengthening
shadows and darkening skies.  They were settled close against the trees
of the Black Oaks, well back from the flats.  A stream ran out of the
forest several yards away, churning determinedly across a series of
rocks and twisting away again into the shadows.  The night was still
and empty-feeling, free of intrusive sounds, of movement, of the
presence of watching eyes.

Bremen rose and stood before the fire with the ironwood staff held
upright before him, one end butted firmly against the earth, the other
pointed skyward, both hands fastened to the midsection.  The staff was
six feet in length, cut so at his in struction, still raw from the
shaving Kinson had labored to complete.

"Stay seated until I am finished," he ordered mysteriously.

He closed his eyes and went very still.  After a moment, his hands
began to glow with white light.  Slowly the light spread out along the
length of the staff, traveling in both directions.  When the staff was
completely enveloped, the light began to pulse.  Kinson and Mareth
watched in silence, mindful of Bremen's admonition.  The light infused
itself into the wood, turning it oddly transparent.  It snaked up and
down in strange patterns, moving slowly at first, then more rapidly.
All the while Bremen stayed as still as stone, eyes closed, brows knit
in concentration.

Then the light died away, returning to the Druid's hands be fore
fading.  Bremen's eyes opened.  He took a long, slow breath and held up
the staff.  The wood had turned as black as ink, and its surface was
smooth and polished.  Something of the light that had sealed it
reflected in its deep sheen, just a spark that winked and disappeared
before moving on to another spot, as elusive as the glint of a cat's
eye.

Bremen smiled and handed the staff to Mareth.  "This is for you."

She took it from him and held it, marveling at its feel.  "it is warm
yet."

"And will stay so."  Bremen reseated himself, a hint of weariness
creeping into his lined face.  "The magic that infuses it will not be
dislodged, but will reside within for as long as the staff is whole."

"And what is the purpose of this magic?  Why are you giving the staff
to me?"

The old man leaned forward slightly, the light changing the pattern in
the wrinkles that etched his face.  "The staff is meant to help you,
Mareth.  You have searched long and hard for a way to control your
magic, to prevent it from running amok, perhaps even from consuming
you.  I have given much thought to what could be done.  I think the
staff is the answer.  It is de signed to act as a conduit.
Plant one end firmly against the ground, and it will carry off the
excess of any magic you wish to employ."

He paused, searching her dark eyes.  "You understand what this means,
don't you?  It means that I believe you will have to use the magic
again now that we are traveling north.  Any other expectation would be
unrealistic.  The Warlock Lord will be looking for us, and there will
come a time when you will have to protect yourself and perhaps others
as well.  I may not be there to help you.  Your magic is too essential
for you not to be able to rely on it.  I am hopeful that the staff will
allow you to employ it without fear."

She nodded slowly.  "Even if the magic is innate?"

"Even so.  It will take time for you to learn to use the staff
properly.  I wish I could promise you that time, but I cannot.
You must remember the staff's purpose, and if you are required to
defend yourself, order your thoughts with the staff in mind."

She cocked one eyebrow at him, then said, "Do not act recklessly.
Do not call up the magic without first thinking of the staff.  Do not
employ the magic without setting the staff and opening a channel within
to carry the excess out."

He smiled.  "You are quick, Mareth.  If I were your father, I would be
proud indeed."

She smiled back.  "I think of you as my father in any case.
Not as I once did, but in a good way."

"I am flattered.  Now, take the staff as your own and do not forget its
use.  Once to the Silver River, we are back in enemy country, and the
battle with the Warlock Lord begins anew."

They slept well that night and set out again at dawn.  They rode
slowly, resting their horses often in the midsummer heat, working their
way steadily north.  To their right, the Battle mound shimmered in the
sun, barren and stark, empty of movement.  To their left, the Black
Oaks were a dark wall, as still as the flats, tall and forbidding.
Again they rode mostly in silence, Kinson carrying the sword, Mareth
the staff, and Bremen the weight of their future.

By nightfall, they had skirted the quagmire of the Mist Marsh and
reached the Silver River.  Anxious to gain the heights that lay just
beyond so that he could view the Rabb Plains and the whole of the
country north before the morrow, Bremen made the choice to cross.  They
found a shallows, the river low from days of little rainfall and high
heat, and with the sun setting wearily beyond the flat glimmer of the
Rainbow Lake west, they rode up through a series of hills and onto a
bluff.  There, back within a thick band of trees, they dismounted,
tethered the horses, and proceeded on foot.  By now the daylight had
faded to a silvery gray and the shadows of nightfall had begun to
lengthen.  The air, still thick with heat, had taken on a smoky quality
and tasted of dust and parched grass.  Night birds flew through the
darkness in search of food, flashes of movement that appeared and were
gone in an instant's time.  All about them, insects buzzed hungrily.

They reached the edge of the bluff, the sunlight streaking the flats
with red fire, and stopped.

Below them lay the whole of the Northland army.  It was camped several
miles farther north, well out on the plains so that the details of its
battle pennants were obscured, but too vast and dark to be mistaken for
anything other than what it was.  Cooking fires were already lit, small
flickers of light that dotted the grasslands like fireflies.  Horses and
wagons circled sluggishly, wheels and traces creaking, riders and
drivers shouting roughly as they wrestled provisions an weapons into 
place.
Tents billowed in the hot breeze amid the army's protective
mass.  One, an impenetrable black, its ribs all edges and spines, stood
alone at the exact center of the camp, a broad stretch of open ground
encircling it like a moat.  The Druid, the Borderman, and the girl
stared down at it in silence.

"What is the Northland army doing here?"  Kinson asked finally.

Bremen shook his head.  "I'm not certain.  It must have come out of the
Anar, where we saw it last, so perhaps now it moves west ...

His voice died away, leaving the rest unsaid.  If the army of the
Warlock Lord was withdrawing from the Eastland, then the battle with
the Dwarves was finished and would now in all likelihood be carried to
the Elves.  But what had become of Raybur and his army?  What had
become of Risca?

Kinson Ravenlock shook his head despairingly.  Weeks had passed since
the invasion of the Eastland.  Much could have happened in that time.
Standing with Urprox Screl's sword strapped across his back, he
wondered suddenly if they had come too late with the talisman to be of
any use.

He reached down for the buckle to the strap that secured it, loosened
the sword, and handed it to Bremen.  "We have to find out what's going
on.  I'm the logical one to do that."  He slipped off his own
broadsword as well, leaving only a short sword and hunting knife.
"I should be back by sunrise."

Bremen nodded, not bothering to argue the point.  He understood what
the Borderman was saying.  Either of them could go down there, but it
was Bremen they could least afford to lose at this point.  Now that
they had the sword, the talis man the visions of Galaphile had
promised, they must discover its use and its wielder.  Bremen was the
only one who could do that.

"I will go with you," Mareth said suddenly, impulsively.

The Borderman smiled.  It was an unexpected offer.  He considered it a
moment, then said to her, not unkindly, "Two make it twice as hard when
you are sneaking about.  Wait here with Bremen.  Help keep watch for my
return.  Next time, you can go in my place."

Then he tightened the belt that sheathed the remainder of his blades,
moved several dozen paces to his right, and started down the bluff
slope into the fading light.

WHEN THE BORDERMAN HAD GONE, the old man and the girl moved back into
the trees and set camp.  They ate their meal cold, not wishing to
chance a fire with the Northland army so close and Skull Bearers
certain to be at hunt.  Their journey and the heat of the day had
drained them of energy, and they talked only briefly before Bremen
assumed watch and Mareth slept.

The time passed slowly, the night darkening, the fires of the enemy
camp growing brighter in the distance, the skies opening in a flood of
stars.  There was no moon this night; it was either new or so far south
it could not be spied beyond the screen of trees that backed along the
bluff.  Bremen found his thoughts straying to other times and places,
to his days at Paranor, now forever lost, to his introductions to Tay
Trefenwyd and Risca, to his recruitment of Kinson Ravenlock, to his
search for the truth about Brona.  He thought of Paranor's long
history, and he wondered if the Druid Council would ever convene
again.
From where, he asked himself, would new Druids come, now that the old
were destroyed?  The knowledge lost with their passing was
irreplaceable.  Some of it had been transferred to the Druid 
histories, but not all.  Though turned moribund and reclusive, those who
had become Druids were the brightest of several generations of the people
of the Four Lands.  Who would take their place?

It was a pointless argument, given the fact that there was no reason to
believe that anyone would be left alive to assemble a new Druid Council
if he should fail in his effort to destroy the Warlock Lord.  Worse, it
made him consider anew the fact that he still lacked anyone to succeed
him.  He glanced at the sleeping Mareth and wondered momentarily if
perhaps she might consider the position.  She had grown close to him
since leaving Paranor, and she was a genuine talent.  The magic she
possessed was incredibly powerful, and she had a deep appreciation for
its possibilities.  But there was nothing to guarantee that she would
ever be able to master her lethal magic, and if she could not do so she
was useless.  Druids must have discipline and control be fore all
things.  Mareth was fighting to acquire both.

He looked back across the grasslands of the Rabb, then let his hand
stray to his side, where it came to rest on the sword.
Still such a mystery, he lamented.  What was he required to do in order
to discover the solution?  He would travel to the Hadeshorn to ask help
from the Druids, but there was no guarantee they would give it.  On
his last visit, they had refused even to appear to him.  Why should it
be any different now?
Would the presence of the sword persuade them to rise from their
netherworld confines?  Would they be intrigued enough to show
themselves?  Would they choose to respond to his summons because they
had been human once themselves and could appreciate humanity's need?

He closed his eyes and rubbed at them wearily.  When he opened them
again, one of the enemy watch fires was moving toward him.  He blinked
in disbelief, certain he must be imagining it.  But the fire came on,
a small, flickering brightness in the vast darkness of the plains,
wending its way closer.  It seemed to float.  As it neared, he rose in
spite of himself, trying to decide what he should do.  Oddly, he did
not feel threatened, only curious.

Then the light settled and took shape, and he could see that it was
carried by a small boy.  The boy was smooth-faced and his clear blue
eyes were inquisitive.  He smiled in greeting as he approached, holding
the light aloft.  Bremen blinked anew.  The light was like nothing he
had ever seen.  It burned no flame, but shone out of a glass and metal
casing, as if powered by a miniature star.

"Greetings, Bremen," the boy said softly.

"Greetings," Bremen replied.

"You look weary.  Your journey has required much of you.
But you have accomplished much, so perhaps the sacrifice was a fair
trade."  The blue eyes shone.  "I am the King of the Silver River.
Do you know of me?"

Bremen nodded.  He had heard of this faerie creature, the last of his
kind, a being said to reside close to the Rainbow Lake and along the
near stretch of the river for which he was named.
It was said he had survived for thousands of years, that he had been
one of the first beings created by the Word.  It was said that his
vision and his magic were by equal measures ancient and far-reaching.
He appeared on occasion to travelers in need, often as a boy, sometimes
as an old man.

"You sit within the fringe of my gardens," the boy said.  His hand
gestured in a slow sweep.  "If you look closely, you can see them."

Bremen did look, and suddenly the bluff and the plains faded away and
he found himself seated in gardens thick with flowering trees and
vines, the air fragrant with their smells, the whisper of boughs a soft
singing against the silky black of the night.

The vision faded.  "I have come to give you rest and reassurance,"
said the boy.  "This night at least, you shall sleep in peace.
No watch will be necessary.  Your journey has taken you a long way from
Paranor, and it is far from over.  You will be challenged at every
turn, but if you walk carefully and heed your instincts, you will
survive to destroy the Warlock Lord."

"Do you know what I must do?"  Bremen asked quickly.  "Can you tell
me?"

The boy smiled.  "You must do what you think best.  That is the nature
of the future.  It is not given to us already cast.  It is given as a
set of possibilities, and we must choose which of these we would make
happen and then try to see it done.  You go now to the Hadeshorn.
You carry the sword to the spirits of the Druids dead and gone.  Does
that choice seem wrong to you?"

It did not.  It seemed right.  "But I am not certain," the old man
confessed.

"Let me see the sword," the boy asked gently.

The Druid lifted it for the boy to inspect.  The boy reached out as if
he might take hold of it, then stayed his hand when it was almost
touching, and instead passed his fingers down the length of the blade
and drew his hand clear again.

"You will know what you must do when you are there," he said.
"You will know what is required."

To his surprise, Bremen understood.  "At the Hadeshorn."

"There, and afterward, at Arborlon, where all is changed and a new
beginning is made.  You will know."

"Can you tell me of my friends, of what has become ... ?"

"The Ballindarrochs are destroyed and there is a new King of the
Elves.
Seek him for the answers to your questions."

"What of Tay Trefenwyd?  What of the Black Elfstone?"

But the boy had risen, carrying with him the strange light.
"Sleep, Bremen.  Morning comes soon enough."

A great weariness settled over the old man.  Though he wanted to do so,
he could not make himself rise to follow.
There were still questions he wished to ask, but he could not make
himself speak the words.  It was as if a weight were pulling at him,
huge and insistent.  He slid to the ground, wrapped in his cloak, his
eyes heavy, his breathing slow.


The boy's hand wove through the air.  "Sleep, that you may find the
strength you need to go on."

The boy and the light receded into the dark, growing steadily
smaller.
Bremen tried to follow their progress, but could not stay awake.  His
breathing deepened and his eyes closed.

When the boy and the light disappeared, he slept.

AT DAWN, Kinson Ravenlock returned.  He walked out of a blanket of
morning fog that hung thick and damp across the Rabb, the air having
cooled during the night.  Behind him, the army of the Warlock Lord was
stirring, a sluggish beast preparing to move on.  He stretched wearily
as he reached the old man and the girl, finding them awake and waiting
for him, looking as if they had slept surprisingly well.  He glanced at
them in turn, wondering at the fresh resolve he found in their eyes, at
the re newal of their determination.  He dropped his weapons and 
accepted the cold breakfast and ale that he was offered, seating
himself gratefully beneath the shady boughs of a small stand of oaks.

"The Northlanders march against the Elves," he advised, dispensing
with any preliminaries.  "They say that the Dwarves are destroyed."

"But you are not certain," Bremen offered quietly, seated across from
him with Mareth at his side.

Kinson shook his head.  "They drove the Dwarves back be yond the
Ravenshorn, beat them at every turn.  They say they smashed them at a
place called Stedden Keep, but Raybur and Risca both appear to have
escaped.  Nor do they seem certain how many of the Dwarves they
killed."  He arched one eyebrow.
"Doesn't sound like a resounding victory to me."

Bremen nodded, thinking.  "But the Warlock Lord grows restless with the
pursuit.  He feels no threat from the Dwarves, but fears the Elves.  So
he turns west."

"How did you learn all this?"  Mareth asked Kinson, obviously
perplexed.  "How could you have gotten so close.  You couldn't have let
them see you."

"Well, they saw me and they didn't."  The Borderman smiled.
"I was close enough to touch them, but they didn't get a look at my
face.  They thought me one of them, you see.  In near darkness, cloaked
and hooded, hunched down a bit, you can appear as they do because they
don't expect you to be anything else.  It's an old trick, best
practiced before you actually try it."
He gave her an appraising look.  "You seem to have slept well in my
absence."

"All night," she admitted ruefully.  "Bremen let me do so.  He didn't
wake me for my watch."

"There was no need," the other said quickly, brushing the matter
aside.
"But now we have today to worry about.  We have come to another
crossroads, I'm afraid.  We shall have to separate.  Kinson, I want you
to go into the Eastland and look for Risca.  Find out the truth of
things.  If Raybur and the Dwarves are yet a fighting force, bring them
west to stand with the Elves.  Tell them we have a talisman that will
destroy the Warlock Lord, but we will need their help in bringing him
to bay."

Kinson thought the matter over a moment, frowning.  "I will do what I
can, Bremen.  But the Dwarves were relying on the Elves, and it appears
that the Elves never came.  I wonder how willing the Dwarves will be
now to go to the aid of the Elves."

Bremen gave him a steady look.  "It is up to you to persuade them that
they must.  It is imperative, Kinson.  Tell them that the
Ballindarrochs were destroyed, and a new king was chosen.  Tell them
that is why the Elves were delayed.  Remind them that the threat is to
us all, not to any one."  He glanced briefly at Mareth, seated next to
him, then back to the Borderman.  "I must go on to the Hadeshorn to
speak with the spirits of the dead about the sword.  From there, I will
travel west to the Elves to find the sword's wielder.  We will meet
again there."

"Where am I to go?"  Mareth asked at once.

The old man hesitated.  "Kinson may have greater need of YOU."

"I don't need anyone," the Borderman objected at once.  His dark eyes
met the girl's and then quickly lowered.

Mareth looked questioningly at Bremen.  "I have done all I can for
you," he said quietly.

She seemed to understand what he was telling her.  She smiled bravely
and glanced at Kinson.  "I would like to come with you, Kinson.
Yours will be the longer journey, and maybe it will help if there are
two of us to make it.  You're not afraid to have me along, are you?"

Kinson snorted.  "Hardly.  Just remember what Bremen told you about the
staff.  Maybe you can keep from setting fire to my backside."

He regretted the words almost before he finished saying them.  "I
didn't mean that," he said ruefully.  "I'm sorry."

She shook her head dismissively.  "I know what you meant.
There is nothing to apologize for.  We are friends, Kinson.
Friends understand each other."

She smiled reassuringly, her gaze lingering on him, and he thought in
that moment that maybe she was right, that maybe they were friends.
But he found himself wondering at the same time if she didn't mean
something more.

CHAPTER 26

ALONE now, all those who had come with him from Paranor departed on
journeys of their own, Bremen traveled north for the Hadeshorn.  He
went down onto the Plains of Rabb, easing his way through a mid
morning haze as the sun lifted into the cloudless blue sky.  He walked
his horse slowly, angling east away from the departing Northland army,
wary of encountering the scouts they would be dispatching and the
stragglers they were sure to leave be hind.  He could hear the army in
the distance, a rumbling of wagons and machines, a creaking of traces
and stays, a hum of activity that rose out of the brume, disembodied
and direction less.  Bremen cloaked himself with his Druid magic so
that he would not be seen even by chance, sorted through the maze of
sounds to detect what threatened, and kept close watch over what moved
in the blanket of mist.

Time slipped away, and the sun began to burn off the haze.
The sounds of the departing army receded, moving west, away from where
he rode, and Bremen relaxed his vigil.  He could see the plains more
clearly now, their parched, flat stretches of baked earth and
burned-out grasses, their dusty sweep from the forests of the Anar to
the Runne, trampled by the Northlanders, left littered and scarred.  He
rode through the army's discards and leavings, through the debris that
marked its passing, and he pondered on the ugliness and futility of
war.  He wore Urprox Screl's sword strapped across his back, the weight
of it his to bear now that Kinson was gone.  He could feel it
pressing
against him as he rode, a constant reminder of the challenge he
faced.
He wondered at his insistence on assuming such responsibility.
It would have been so much easier not to have done so.
There was no particular reason why he should have taken on this
burden.
No one had forced him, No one had come to him and said that he must.

The choice had been his, and he could not help but wonder this morning,
as he rode toward the Dragon's Teeth and the confrontation that
waited, what perverse need had driven him to make it.

He found no water on the plains as midday approached, and so he went on
without stopping.  He dismounted and walked the horse for a time,
hooding himself against the noon heat, the sun a brilliant white orb
that burned down with pitiless insistence.  He pondered the enormity
of the danger that the people of the Four Lands faced.  Like the land
beneath the sun, they seemed so helpless.  So much depended on things
unknown the sword's magic, the sword's wielder, the varied quests of
the individual members of their little company, and the coming together
of all of these at the right time and place.  The under taking was
ludicrous when dissected and examined in its separate parts, fraught
with the possibility of failure.  Yet when considered as a whole, when
looked at in terms of need measured against determination, failure was
unthinkable.

With night's fall, he camped on the open plains in a ravine where a
small trickle of water and some sparse grass allowed the horse to gain
nourishment.  Bremen ate a little of the bread he still carried and
drank from the aleskin.  He watched the night sky offer up its display
of stars and saw a quarter-moon on the rise crest the horizon south.
He sat with the sword in his lap and pondered anew its use.  He ran his
fingers over the crest of the Eilt Druin, as if by doing so he might
discover the secret of its magic.  You will know what is required, the
King of the Silver River had said.  The hours slipped away as he sat
thinking, the night about him still and at peace.  The Northland army
was too far away now to be heard, its fires too distant to be seen.
The Rabb this night belonged to him, and it felt as if he were the only
living person in all the world.

He rode on at dawn, making better time this day.  The sky clouded
across the sun, lessening the force of its heat.  Dust rose
from his horse's hooves, small explosions that drifted and scattered
in a soft west wind.  Ahead, the country began to change, to turn green
again where the Mermidon flowed down out of the Runne.  Trees lifted
from the flats, small stands that warded springs and tributaries of the
larger river.  By late afternoon, he had crossed at a wide shallows and
was moving toward the wall of the Dragon's Teeth.  He could have
stopped there and rested, but he chose to go on.  Time was a harsh
taskmaster and did not allow for personal indulgence.

By nightfall, he had reached the foothills that led up into the Valley
of Shale.  He dismounted and tethered his horse close by a spring.  He
watched the sun sink behind the Runne and ate his dinner, thinking of
what lay ahead.  A long night, for one thing.  Success or failure, for
another.  He could break it down quite simply, but the uncertainty was
still enormous.  His mind drifted for a time, and he found himself
picking out bits and pieces of his life to reexamine, as if by doing so
he might find some measure of reassurance in his capabilities.  He had
enjoyed some small measure of success in his efforts to thwart the
Warlock Lord, and he could take heart from that.
But he knew that in this dangerous game a single misstep could prove
fatal and all that had been accomplished could be undone.  He wondered
at the unfairness of it, but knew that never in the history of the
world had fairness determined anything that mattered.

When midnight came, he rose and walked up into the mountains.  He wore
the black robes of his office, the insignia of the Eilt Druin emblazoned
on his breast, and he carried Urprox Screl's wondrous sword.
He smiled.  Urprox Screl's sword.  He should call it something else,
for it belonged to the smith no longer.  But there was no other name
for it as yet, and no way to give it one until its real owner was
discovered or its purpose determined.  So he put the matter of the
sword's name aside, breathing in the night air, so cool and clean in
these foot hills, so clear that it seemed as if he could see forever.

He passed through the draws and defiles that led to the Valley of
Shale, and it was still several hours before dawn when he reached his
destination.  He stood for a time at the rim of the valley and looked
down at the Hadeshorn, the lake as still and flat as glass, reflecting
an image of a night sky bright with stars.

He looked into the mirror of the silent waters, and he found himself
wondering at the secrets that it hid.  Could he unlock just a handful
of those?  Could he find a way to discover just one or two, those that
would give him a chance of successfully carrying on his struggle?
There, in the depths of that lake, the answers waited, treasures
hoarded and protected by the spirits of the dead, maybe because it was
all that remained to them of the life they had departed, maybe because
in death you had so little you could call your own.

He sat then amid the jumbled rock and continued to stare at the lake
and to ponder its mysteries.  What was it like when your life was gone
and you assumed spirit form?  What was it like to live within the
waters of the Hadeshorn?  Did you feel in death anything of what you
felt in life?  Did you carry all your memories with you?  Did you have
the same longings and needs?  Was there purpose in being when your
corporeal body was gone?

So many unknowns, he thought.  But he was old, and the secrets would
be revealed to him soon enough.

An hour before dawn he picked up the sword and went down into the
valley.  He worked his way carefully across the loose obsidian,
cautious of a misstep, trying hard not to think of what lay ahead.  He
calmed himself, retreating deep inside as he walked, collecting his
thoughts and shaping his needs.  The night was peaceful and silent, but
he could already sense some thing stirring within the earth.  He came
down off the valley slope and walked to the edge of the Hadeshorn and
stopped.
He stood there for a moment without moving, a sense of uncertainty
creeping through him.  So much depended on what happened next, and he
knew so little of what he should do.

He placed the sword before him at the water's edge and straightened.
There was nothing he could do about it now.
Time was slipping away.

He began the incantations and hand motions that would summon the
spirits of the dead.  He worked his way through them with grim
determination, blocking out what he could of the doubts and
uncertainties, casting off what he could of the fear.  He felt the
earth rumble and the lake stir in response to his efforts.  The sky
darkened as if clouds had appeared to cloak it, and the stars
disappeared.  Water hissed and boiled before him, and the voices of the
dead began to rise in whispers that turned quickly to moans and
cries.
Bremen felt his own resolve toughen as if to shield him in some way
from what the dead might do to him.  He went hard and taut inside, so
that the only movement came from the quicksilver flight of his
thoughts.  He was finished now with the summoning, and he picked up the
sword again and stepped back.  The lake was churning wildly, spray
flying in all directions, and the voices were a maddening cacophony.
The Druid stood rooted in place and waited for what must come.  He was
shut away in the valley now, isolated from the living, alone with the
dead.  If something went wrong, there was no one to help him.  If he
failed, there was no one to come for him.  Whatever transpired this
day, it was on his shoulders.

Then the lake exploded at its center in a volcanic surge, and a geyser
rose straight into the air, a vast, black column of water.
Bremen's eyes went wide.  He had never seen that happen be fore.
The column lifted skyward, and its waters did not falter or
dissipate.
All about it fluttered the ghostly, shimmering forms of the spirits of
the dead.  They appeared in swarms, emerging not from the lake itself,
but from the column, disgorged from its churning mass.  They swam
through the air as if still in water, their small forms a brilliant
kaleidoscope against the black of the night.  As they whirled, they
cried out, their voices sharp and poignant, as if all that they had
ever wanted was to be found in this single moment in time.

Booming coughs rose suddenly from the column's center, and now Bremen
fell back in spite of himself, the earth beneath his feet heaving with
the force of the sound.  He had over stepped himself in some way, he
thought in horror.  He had done something wrong.  But it was too late
to change things, even if he had known what to do, and it was too late
to flee.

In his hands, the embossed surface of the Eilt Druin, embedded in the
pommel of the sword, began to glow.

Bremen flinched as if he had been burned.  Shades!

Then the column of water split asunder, cracked down the middle as
surely as if struck by lightning.  Light blazed from within, so
brilliant that Bremen was forced to shield his eyes.
He brought his arms up protectively, the sword held before him as if to
ward off what threatened, The light flared, and as it did a line of
dark forms began to emerge.  One by one, they materialized, cloaked
and hooded, as black as the night around them, steaming with an inner
heat.

Bremen dropped to one knee, unable to stand longer in the face of what
was happening, still trying to shield his eyes and at the same time
watch.  One by one, the robed figures began to approach, and now Bremen
recognized who they were.  They were the ghosts of Druids past, the
shades of those who had gone before, of all who had lived once in this
world, larger in death than in life, apparitions that lacked substance,
yet still radiated a terrible presence.  The old man shrank from them
in spite of himself, so many come at once, more coming still, a
seemingly endless line floating in the air before him, approaching
across the roiling waters of the lake, inexorable and dark, 

He heard
them speak now, heard them call to him.  Their voices lifted above
those of the smaller forms accompanying them, speaking his name over
and over again.  Bremen, Bremen.
Foremost was Galaphile, and his voice was strongest.  Bremen, Bremen.
The old man wanted desperately to flee, would have given anything to be
able to do so.  His courage failed and his resolve turned to water.
These apparitions were coming for him, and he could already feel the
touch of their ghostly hands on his body.
Madness buzzed inside his head, threatening to overwhelm him.  On they
came, huge forms wending their way through the darkness, faceless
apparitions, ghosts out of time and history.
He found he could not stop himself from shaking, could not make himself
think.  He wanted to shriek his despair.

Then they were before him, Galaphile first, and Bremen lowered his head
into the crook of his arm helplessly.

-Hold forth the sword 

He did so without question, thrusting it before
him as he would a talisman.  Galaphile's hand reached out, and his
fingers brushed the Eilt Druin.  Instantly, the emblem flared with
white light.  Galaphile turned away, and another Druid approached,
touched the emblem, and departed.  So it went, as one by one the
spirits paraded before the old man and touched the sword he held, their
fingers brushing the image of the Eilt Druin be fore they passed on.
Over and over again the emblem flared brightly in response.  From
within the shelter of his raised arm, Bremen watched it happen.  It
might have been a blessing that they bestowed, an approval that they
gave.  But the old man knew it was something more, something darker and
harsher.
There was a transference being wrought upon the sword by the touch of
the dead.  He could feel it happening.  He could sense it taking
hold.

It was what he had come for.  It could not be mistaken for anything
else.  It was what he had been seeking.  Yet even now, at the moment of
its happening, he could not decipher its meaning.

So he knelt there at the edge of the Hadeshorn in the gloom and the
spray, dismayed and confused, listening to the sounds of the dead, a
witness to their passing, and wondered at what was taking place.  At
last the Druids had all come before him, touched the Eilt Druin, and
gone on.  At last he was alone, hunched down in the night.  The sounds
of the spirit voices faded, and in the ensuing silence he could hear
the rasp of his own labored breathing.  Sweat drenched his body and
glistened on his face.  His arm was cramped from holding forth the
sword, yet he could not make himself withdraw it.  He waited, knowing
there was more, that it was not yet finished.

-Bremen 

His name, spoken by a voice he now knew.  He lifted his head
cautiously.  The Druid shades were gone.  The column of water was
gone.
All that remained was the lake and the blackness of the night and,
directly before him, the shade of Galaphile.  It waited on him
patiently as he rose and drew the sword against his body as if to find
strength there.  There were tears on his face, and he did not know how
they had gotten there.  Were they his own?  He tried to speak and could
not.

The shade spoke instead.


-Heed me.  The sword has been given its power.  Carry it now to the one
who will wield it.  Find him west.  You will know.
It belongs now to him 

Bremen's voice groped for words that would not
come.  The spirit's arm lifted to him.

 Ask 

The old man's mind cleared, and his words were harsh and filled with
awe.  "What have you done?"

-Given what part of us we can.  Our lives have passed away.  Our
teachings have been lost.  Our magic has dissipated in the wane of
time.  Only our truth remains, all that belonged to us in our lives, in
our teachings, in our magic, stark and hard edged and killing strong

Truth?  Bremen stared, uncomprehending.  Where did the sword's power
lie in this?  What form of magic came from truth?
All those Druids passing before him, touching the blade, making it
flare so brightly-for this?

The shade of Galaphile pointed once more, a gesture so compelling that
Bremen's queries died in his throat and his attention was immediately
commanded.  The dark figure before him swept away all but its own
presence as its arm lifted, and the silence surrounding it was
complete.

-Listen, Bremen, last of Paranor, and I will tell you what you would
know.  Listen 

And Bremen, captured heart and soul by the power of the
shade's words, did so.

WHEN IT WAS FINISHED and the shade of Galaphile was gone, when the
waters of the Hadeshorn had become still and flat once more and the
dawn was creeping silver and gold out of the east, the old man walked
to the rim of the Valley of Shale and slept for a time amid the
littered black rock.  The sun rose and the day brightened, but the
Druid did not wake.  He slept a deep, dream-filled sleep, and the
voices of the dead whispered to him in words he could not comprehend.
He woke at sunset, haunted by the dreams, by his inability to decipher
their meaning and his fear that they hid from him secrets that he must
reveal if the Races were to survive.  He sat amid the heat and shadows
in the darkening twilight, pulled the remainder of his bread from his
pack, and ate half of it in silence, staring out at the mountains, at
the high, strange formations of the Dragon's Teeth where the clouds
scraped against the jagged tips on their way east to the plains.  He
drank from the aleskin, now almost empty, and thought on what he had
learned.

Of the secret of the sword.

Of the nature of its magic.

Then he rose and went back down out of the foothills to where he had
left his horse the night before.  He found the horse gone.  Someone had
taken it, the thief's footprints plain in the dust, one set only,
approaching, then departing, the horse in tow.  He gave the matter
almost no thought, but instead began to walk west, unwilling to delay
the start of his journey longer.  It would take him at least four days
afoot, longer if he had to avoid the Northland army, which he almost
certainly would.  But there was no help for it.  Perhaps he could find
an other horse on the way.

The night deepened and the moon rose, filling out again, brightening
the sky, the clouds brief shadows against its widening crescent as they
sailed past in silent procession.  He walked steadily, following the
silver thread of the Mermidon as it snaked its way west, keeping in the
shadow of the Dragon's Teeth, where the moonlight would not reveal
him.
He considered his choices as he walked, turning them over and over in
his mind.  Galaphile came to him, spoke to him, and revealed to him
anew.  The spirits of the Druids filed past him once more, solemn and
voiceless wraiths, their hands reaching for the pommel of the sword,
lowering to the image of the Eilt Druin, touching it momentarily and
lifting away.

Passing on the truths they had discovered in life.  Imbuing it with the
power such truths could provide.

Empowering it.

He breathed deeply the night air.  Did he understand fully now the
power of this talisman?  He thought so, and yet it seemed so small a
magic to trust in battle against so powerful an enemy.  How was he to
convince the man who bore it that it was sufficient to prevail?  How
much should he reveal of what he knew?  Too little, and he risked
losing the bearer to ignorance.  Too much, and he risked losing him to
fear.  On which side should he err?

Would he know when he met the man?

He felt adrift with his uncertainty.  So much depended on this weapon,
and yet it had been left to him alone to decide on the manner of its
use.

To him alone, because that was the burden he had assumed and the pact
he had made.

The night wore on, and he reached the juncture of the river where it
branched south through the Runne.  The wind blew out of the southwest
and carried on its back the smell of death.  Bremen drew up short as
the stench filled his nostrils.  There was killing below the Mermidon,
and it was massive.  He debated his course of action, then walked on to
a narrows in the river's bend and crossed.  Below lay Varfleet, the
Southland settlement from which Kinson had been recruited five years
earlier.  The stench rose from there.

He reached the town while morning was still several hours away, the
night a silent, dark shroud.  The smell sharpened as he neared, and he
knew at once what had happened.  Smoke rose, lazy swirls of gray ribbon
in the moonlight.  Red embers glowed.  Timbers jutted from the earth
like spears.  Varfleet had been burned to the ground, and all of its
people killed or driven off.  Thousands of them.  The old man shook his
head hopelessly as he entered the silent, empty streets.  Buildings
were razed and looted, People and animals lay dead at every turn,
sprawled in grotesque, careless heaps amid the rubble.  He walked
through the devastation and wondered at its savagery.  He stepped over
the body of an old man, eyes open and staring sightlessly.  A rat eased
from beneath the corpse and scurried away.

He reached the center of the village and stopped.  It did not appear as
if there had been much of a battler there were few spent weapons to be
found.  Many of the dead looked as if they had been caught sleeping.
How many of Kinson's family and friends lay among them?  He shook his
head sadly.  The attack was two days old, he guessed.  The Northland
army had come out of the Eastland and moved west above the Rainbow Lake
on its way to do battle with the Elves.  It was Varfleet's misfortune
that it lay in the invaders' path.

All of the Southland villages between here and the Streleheim would
suffer a similar fate, he thought in despair.  A great emptiness welled
up inside him.  The words that would describe what he was feeling
seemed so inadequate.

He gathered his dark robes about him, hitched the sword higher on his
back, and walked from the village, trying not to look at the carnage.
He was almost clear when he sensed movement.  Another man would have
missed it completely, but he was a Druid.  He did not see with his
eyes, but with his mind.

Someone was alive in the debris, hiding.


He veered left, proceeding carefully, his magic already summoned in a
protective web.  He did not feel threatened, but he knew enough to be
careful in any event.  He worked his way through a series of ruined
homes to a collapsed shed.  There, just within a sagging entry, a
figure crouched.

Bremen drew to a halt.  It was a boy of no more than twelve, his
clothing torn and soiled, his face and hands covered in ash and
grime.
He pressed back into the shadows as if wishing the earth itself might
cover him up.  There was a knife in one hand, held protectively before
him.  His hair was lank and dark, cut shoulder-length and hanging loose
about his narrow face.

"Come out, boy," the old man said softly.  "It's all right."

The boy did not move an inch.

"There is no one here but you and me.  Whoever did this is gone.
Come out, now."

The boy stayed where he was.

Bremen looked off into the distance, distracted by the sudden flash of
a falling star.  He took a deep breath.  He could not afford to linger
and could do nothing for the boy in any event.
He was wasting his time.

"I'm leaving now," he said wearily.  "You should do the same.
These people are all dead.  Travel to one of the villages farther south
and ask for help there.  Good luck to you."

He turned and walked away.  So many would be left homeless and
shattered before this was over.  It was depressing to consider.  He
shook his head.  He walked for a hundred yards and then suddenly
stopped.  When he turned, there was the boy, his back against a wall,
the knife in his hand, watching.

Bremen hesitated.  "Are you hungry?"

He reached into his pack and pulled out the last of his bread.
The boy's head craned forward, and his face came into the light.  His
eyes glittered when he saw the bread.

His eyes ...

Bremen felt his throat tighten sharply.  He knew this boy!  It was the
boy he had seen in Galaphile's fourth vision!  The eyes betrayed him,
eyes so intense, so penetrating that they seemed to strip away the
skin.  Just a boy, an orphan of this carnage, yet there was something
so profound, so riveting about him ...

"What is your name?"  Bremen asked the boy softly.

The boy did not answer.  He did not move.  Bremen hesitated, then
started toward him.  Instantly the boy drew back into the shadows.  The
old man stopped, set down the bread, turned, and walked away.

Fifty yards farther on, he stopped again.  The boy was following,
watching him closely, gnawing on the confiscated bread as he
advanced.

Bremen asked him a dozen questions, but the boy would not talk to
him.
When Bremen tried to approach, the boy quickly backed away.  When the
Druid tried to persuade the boy to come closer, he was ignored.

Finally the old man turned and walked on.  He did not know what to do
about the boy.  He did not want the boy to come with him, but
Galaphile's vision suggested there was a link of some sort between the
two.  Perhaps if he was patient he would discover what it was.  As the
sun rose, he turned north again and recrossed the Mermidon.  Following
the line of the Dragon's Teeth, he walked on until sunset.  When he
made camp, there was the boy, sitting just beyond the clearing in which
he had chosen to settle, back in the shadow of the trees, watching.
Bremen had no food, but he put out a cup of ale.  He slept until
midnight, then woke to continue his journey.  The boy was waiting.
When he began walking, the boy followed.

So it continued for three days.  At the end of the third day, the boy
came into the camp to sit with him and share a meal of roots and
berries.  When he woke the next morning, the boy was sleeping next to
him.  Together, they rose and walked west.

That night, as they reached the edge of the Plains of Streleheim and
prepared to cross, the boy spoke his first words.

His name, he told the old man, was Allanon.

THE BATTLE FOR THE RHENN

chapter 27

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON, and the light was gray and misty in the study of
the Ballindarroch summerhouse, where Jerle Shannara stood looking down
at the maps spread out on the table before him.  Outside, the rain
continued to fall.  It felt as if it had been raining for weeks, all
though the Elven King knew well enough that it hadn't and that the
feeling was generated mostly by his present state of mind.
It just seemed as if every time he took a moment to consider the
weather, it was raining again.  And today's rain was stronger than
usual, driven by a west wind that whipped the branches of the trees and
scattered leaves like scraps of old paper.

He looked up from his perusal of the maps and sighed.  He could take
some consolation in the fact that the weather was making it more
difficult for the Warlock Lord to maneuver his army than it was for
Jerle to maneuver his.  Of the two, the Warlock Lord's was the more
unwieldy-a vast, sprawling, sluggish beast burdened by baggage and
siege machines.  It could advance a distance of maybe twenty miles a
day in the best of weather.  It had reached the Streleheim three days
earlier and had only just completed its crossing of the Mermidon.  That
meant that it was at least another two days from the Rhenn.
The Elves, on the other hand, were already in place.  Alerted by their
scouts, they had known of the Northland army's advance for more than a
week so they had been given plenty of time to prepare.  Once the
presence of the Northlanders was detected, it was easy enough to guess
which approach they would choose in attacking Arborlon and the Elves.
The Rhenn was the easiest and most direct route into the Westland.  A
large army would have difficulty proceeding any other way and then
would have to attack the Elven home city at its most strongly defended
positions.  North, south, or west, the city was warded-by mountains,
cliffs, and the Rill Song.  Only from the east was she vulnerable,
unprotected by natural defenses.  The sole strategic defensive position
available to her defenders was the Valley of Rhenn.  If the passes
there should fall, the way to Arborlon would lie open.

The maps showed as much, for all the good that did.  Jerle had been
staring at them for over an hour and hadn't learned anything new.
The Elves must hold the Rhenn against the Northland army's eventual
assault or they were lost.  There was no middle ground.  There was no
secondary defensive position worth considering.  It made the choices
available to him as commander of the Elven forces quite clear.  All
that was left to de termine was tactics.  The Elves would defend the
Rhenn, but how would they defend?  How far should they extend their
lines to slow the initial attack?  How many times could they afford to
fall back?  What protective measures should they take against an
encircling strike launched by a smaller force that could penetrate the
forests?  What formations should they employ against an army that
outnumbered them five to one and would make use of the siege machinery
it had been assembling during its March west?

The maps didn't provide specific answers to any of this, but studying
them helped him reason out what was needed.

He looked out the windows again into the rain.  Preia would be back
soon, and they would have dinner-their last before leaving for the
Rhenn.  Much of the army was encamped already in the valley.  The High
Council had declared a state of emergency, and the newly crowned king
had taken charge.  His power was absolute now, fixed and
unchallenged.
He had been crowned two weeks earlier, taken Preia as his wife, and
adopted the two Ballindarroch orphans as his sons.  With the matter of
the succession to the Elven throne settled, he had turned his attention
to the High Council.  Vree Erreden had been named First Minister and
Preia a full council member.  There had been some grumbling, but no
opposition.  He had requested permission to mobilize the Elven army and
march east in support of the Dwarves.  There had been more grumbling
and a threat of opposition, but before the matter could be brought to a
head it had been learned that the Northland army was approaching the
Streleheim and there would be no need for the Elves to march
anywhere.

Reflecting back on the matter, Jerle shook his head.  He did not know
what had become of the Dwarves.  No one did.  He had dispatched riders
east to discover if the Dwarf army had been destroyed, which was what
the rumors all reported, but no definitive word had been brought
back.
He was left to conclude that the Dwarves were in no position to help
and the Elves must stand alone.

He shook his head wearily.  The Elves had been left with no allies, no
magic, no Druids, and no real chance of winning this war-visions and
prophecies and high hopes notwithstanding.

He looked down at the maps again, carefully configured to pographies of
the Rhenn and the land surrounding, as if the answer to the problem
might lie there and perhaps he might have missed it.  There was a time
not so long ago when he would not have allowed himself to make so
honest an assessment of the situation.  There was a time when he would
never have admitted that he could lose a battle to a stronger enemy.
He had changed much since then.  Losing Tay Trefenwyd and the
Ballindarrochs, nearly losing Preia, becoming King of the Elves in less
than ideal circumstances, and discovering that his view of himself was
more than a little flawed had given him a different perspective.  It
was not a debilitating experience, but it was sobering.  It was what
happened when you grew up, he supposed.  It was the rite of passage
you endured when you left your boyhood behind for good.

He found himself studying the scars on the backs of his hands.
Little maps of their own, they traced the progress of his life.

Warrior since birth, now King of the Elves, he had come a long way in a
short time, and the scars provided a more accurate accounting of the
cost of his journey than mere words.
How many more scars would he incur in his battle with the Warlock
Lord?
Was he strong enough for this confrontation?
Was he strong enough to survive?  He carried not only his own destiny
into battle, but that of his people as well.  How strong did he have to
be for that?

The doors leading out onto the terrace flew open with a crash, blown
back against the walls by the force of the wind, their curtains
whipping wildly.  Jerle Shannara reached for his broadsword as two
black-cloaked figures surged into the room, rain-soaked and bent.  Maps
scattered from the table onto the floor, and lamps flickered and went
out.

"Stay your hand, Elven King," commanded the foremost of the intruders,
while the second, smaller figure turned to close the doors behind them,
shutting out the wind and rain once more.

It went quiet again in the room.  Water dripped from the two onto the
stone floor, puddling and staining.  The king crouched guardedly, his
sword halfway out of its sheath, his tall form coiled and ready.
"Who are you?"  he demanded.

The taller of the two pulled back his hood and revealed himself in the
gray, uncertain light.  Jerle Shannara took a long, deep breath.
It was the Druid Bremen.

"I had given up on you," he declared in a whisper, his emotions
betraying him.  "We all had."

The old man's smile was bitter.  "You had reason.  It has taken a long
time to reach you, almost as long as it took to discover that it was
you I sought."  He reached beneath his sodden cloak and withdrew a
long, slim bundle wrapped in dark canvas.  "I have brought you
something."

Jerle Shannara nodded.  "I know."  He shoved his half-drawn sword back
into its scabbard.

There was surprise in the Druid's sharp eyes.  He looked at his
companion.  "Allanon."  The boy pulled back the hood of his cloak,
revealing himself.  Dark eyes burned into the Elven King's, but the
smooth, sharply angled face revealed nothing.
"Remove your cloak.  Wait outside the door.  Ask that no one enter
until this discussion is finished.  Tell them the king commands it."


The boy nodded, slid the cloak from his shoulders, carried it to a
hanging rack, then slipped through the door and was gone.

Bremen and Jerle Shannara stood alone in the study, the maps still
scattered on the floor about them, their eyes locked.
"It has been a long time, Jerle."

The king sighed.  "I suppose it has.  Five years?  Longer, perhaps?"

"Long enough that I had forgotten the lines on your face.
Or perhaps you have simply grown older like the rest of us."
The smile came and went in the encroaching twilight.  "Tell me what you
know of my coming."

Jerle shifted his feet to a less threatening stance, watching as the
other removed his cloak and tossed it aside wearily.  "I am told that
you bring me a sword, one forged with magic, one that I must carry into
battle against the Warlock Lord."  He hesitated.  "Is this true?
Have you brought such a weapon?"

The old man nodded.  "I have."  He took the canvas-wrapped bundle and
laid it carefully on the table.  "But I wasn't certain it was meant for
you until I saw you standing crouched to strike me down, your weapon
coming out of its sheath.  In that moment, seeing you that way, I knew
you were the one for whom the sword was intended.  A vision of you
holding the sword was shown to me at the Hadeshorn weeks ago, but I
failed to recognize you.  Did Tay Trefenwyd tell you of the vision?"

"He did.  But he did not know that the sword was meant for me either.
It was the locat Vree Erreden who advised me.  He saw it in a vision of
his own, saw me holding the sword, a sword with an emblem emblazoned on
the pommel, an emblem of a hand holding forth a burning torch.  He told
me it was the insignia of the Druids."

"A locat?"  Bremen shook his head.  "I would have thought it would be
Tay who .  . ."

"No.  Tay Trefenwyd is dead, killed in the Breakline weeks ago."
The Elven King's voice was quick and hard, and the words tumbled out.
"I was with him.  We had gone to recover the Black Elfstone, as you had
charged us.  We found the Stone, but the creatures of the Warlock Lord
found us.  There were but five of us and a hundred of them.  There were
Skull Bearers.  Tay knew we were doomed.  His own magic was gone, used
up in his struggle to gain possession of the Elfstone, so he 

Words
failed the king, and he could feel the tears spring to his eyes.  His
throat tightened, and he could not speak.

"He used the Black Elfstone, and it destroyed him," the old man
finished, his voice so soft it could barely be heard.  "Even though I
warned him.  Even though he knew what would happen."  The worn, aged
hands clasped tightly.  "Because he had to.
Because he could do no less."

They stood mute before each other, eyes averted.  Then Jerle bent to
retrieve the scattered maps, picking them up and stacking them back on
the table next to the canvas bundle.  The old man watched him for a
moment, then bent to help.  When the maps were all in place again, the
old man took the king's hands in his own.

"I am sorry he is gone, more sorry than I can possibly tell you.
He was a good friend to us both."

"He saved my life," Jerle said quietly, not knowing what else to say,
deciding after a moment that this was enough.

Bremen nodded.  "I was afraid for him," he murmured, releasing the big
man's hands once more and moving over to a chair.
"Can we sit while we talk?  I have walked all night and through the day
to reach you.  The boy accompanied me.  He is a survivor of an attack
on Varfleet.  The Northland army is ravaging the land and its people as
it goes, destroying everything, killing everyone.  The Warlock Lord
grows impatient."

Jerle Shannara sat across from him.  The old man's hands, when they
clasped his own, had felt like dried leaves.  Like death.  The memory
of their touch lingered.  "What has become of the Dwarves?"  he said,
in an effort to direct his thoughts elsewhere.  "We have not been able
to learn anything of them."

"The Dwarves withstood the Northland invasion for as long as they were
able.  The reports vary as to what happened afterward.  I know the
rumors, but I have reason to believe they are wrong.  I have sent
friends to discover the truth and to bring the Dwarves to our aid if
they are able to come."

The king shook his head, a discouraged look in his eyes.
"Why should they come to our aid when we did not come to theirs?
We failed them, Bremen."

"You had reason."

"Perhaps.  I am no longer certain.  You know of Courtann
Ballindarroch's death?  And of his family's destruction?"


"I was told."

"We did what we could, Tay and I. But the High Council would not act
without a king to lead them.  There was no help for it.  So we
abandoned our efforts to help the Dwarves and went instead in search of
the Black Elfstone."  He paused.  "I question now the wisdom of our
choice."

The Druid leaned forward, his dark eyes intense.  "Do you have the
Elfstone in your possession?"

The king nodded.  "Hidden safely away, awaiting your arrival.  I want
nothing more to do with it.  I have seen what it can do.  I have seen
how dangerous it is.  The only comfort I take from this whole business
is that the Stone will be used to aid in the destruction of the Warlock
Lord and his creatures."

But Bremen shook his head.  "No, Jerle.  The Black Elfstone is not
intended for that purpose."

The words were sharp and stunning.  The king's face went hot, and his
throat tightened with rage.  "Are you telling me Tay died for
nothing?
Is that what you are saying?"

"Do not be angry with me.  I do not make the rules in this game.
I am subject to fate's dictates as well.  The Black Elfstone is not a
weapon that can destroy the Warlock Lord.  I know you find this
difficult to believe, but it is so.  The Elfstone is a powerful weapon,
but it subverts those who use it.  It infects them with the same power
they seek to overcome.  The War lock Lord is so pervasive an evil that
any attempt to turn the Elfstone against him would result in the user's
own destruction."

"Then why did we risk so much to recover it?"  The king was livid, his
anger undisguised.

The old man's words were soft and compelling.  "Because it could not be
allowed to fall into Brona's hands.  Because in his hands it would
become a weapon against which we could not stand.  And because, Elven
King, it is needed for something more important still.  When this is
over and the Warlock Lord is no more, it will allow the Druids to give
aid to the Lands even after I am gone.  It will allow their magic and
their lore to survive."

The king stared wordlessly at the Druid, uncomprehending.
A soft knock on the door distracted them both.  The king blinked, then
demanded irritably, "Who is it?"

The door opened, and Preia Starle stepped through.  She seemed
unruffled by his abrupt manner.  She glanced at Bremen, then back to
Jerle.  "I would like to take the boy to the Home Guard barracks for
food and rest.  He is exhausted.  He is not needed to keep further
watch.  I have seen to it that no one will disturb you while you
talk."
She returned her gaze to Bremen.
"Welcome to Arborlon."

The old man rose and made a short bow.  "My Lady Preia."

She smiled in response.  "Never that to you.  Just Preia."  The smile
faded.  "You know what has happened, then?"

"That Jerle is king and you are queen?  I discovered that before
anything else on arriving in the city.  Everyone speaks of it.
You are both blessed, Preia.  You will be strong for each other and for
your people.  I am pleased by the news."

Her eyes shone.  "You are very gracious.  I hope that you can be strong
for us as well in what lies ahead.  Excuse me now.  I will take the boy
with me.  Don't be worried for him.  We are all ready becoming fast
friends."

She went back through the door and closed it behind her.
Bremen looked at the king once more.  "You are fortunate to have her,"
he said quietly.  "I expect you know that."

Jerle Shannara was thinking of another time, not so far in the past,
when he had been confronted with the possibility of losing Preia.
It haunted him still, the thought that his assumptions about her had
been so wrong.  Tay and Preia, the two people closest to him in all
the world: he had misread them both, had failed to know them as well as
he should, and had been taught a lesson in the process that he would
never forget.

The room was silent again, twilight filling the corners with shadows,
the rain a soft patter without.  The king rose and lit anew the lamps
that the wind had blown out.  The gloom re ceded.  The old man watched
him without speaking, waiting him out.

The king sat down again, uneasy still.  His brow furrowed as he met
Bremen's sharp gaze.  "I was just thinking how important it is not to
take anything for granted.  I should have kept that in mind where the
Black Elfstone was concerned.  But losing Tay was impossible to bear
without thinking he had died for good cause.  I assumed wrongly that it
was to assure the Warlock Lord's destruction.  It is difficult to
accept that he died for any thing else."

"It is difficult to accept that he died at all," Bremen said quietly.
"But the reason for his death is nevertheless tied to the destruction
of the Warlock Lord and no less valid or important because the Elfstone
has a different use than you believed.  Tay would understand that, if
he were here.  As king, you must do the same."

Jerle Shannara's smile was sardonic and filled with pain.  "I am new to
this still, this business of being king.  It is not some thing I
sought."

"That is not a bad thing," the Druid replied, shrugging.
"Ambition is not a character trait that will help you in your 
confrontation with the Warlock Lord."

"What will help me, then?  Tell me of the sword, Bremen."
The king's impatience broke past his anger and discouragement.
"The Northland army marches against us.  They will reach the Rhenn in
two days' time.  We must hold them there or we are lost.  But if we are
to have any real chance, I must have a weapon that the Warlock Lord
cannot stand against.  You say you have brought one.  Tell me its
secret.  Tell me what it can do."

He waited then, flushed and anxious, staring at the Druid.
Bremen did not move, holding his gaze, saying nothing.  Then he rose,
walked to the map table, picked up the canvas-wrapped bundle, and
handed it to the king.  "This belongs now to you.
Open it."

Jerle Shannara did so, untying the cords that bound the canvas,
stripping the wrapping carefully away.  When he was finished, he held
in his hands a sword and sheath.  The sword was of unusual length and
size, but light and perfectly formed.  The hilt was engraved at the
guard with the image of a hand holding forth a burning torch.  The king
slid free the sword from its sheath, marveling at the smooth, flawless
surface of the blade, at the feel of it in his hand-as if it belonged
there, as if it really was meant for him.  He studied it for a moment
in silence.
The flame from the torch climbed toward the tip of the blade, and in
the dimness of the study he could almost imagine that it flickered with
a light of its own.  He held the sword out be fore him, testing its
heft and balance.  The metal glittered in the lamplight, alive and
seeking.

The king looked at Bremen and nodded slowly.  "This is a wondrous
blade," he said softly.


"There is more to it than what you perceive, Jerle Shannara-and less,"
replied the old man quickly.  "So listen carefully to what I tell
you.
This information is for you alone.  Only Preia is to know otherwise,
and only if you deem it essential.  Much could depend on this.  I must
have your word."

The king hesitated, glanced at the sword, and then nodded.
"You have it."

The Druid came to him.  He stood very close and kept his voice low.
"By accepting this sword, you make it your own.  But you must know its
history and its purpose if it is to serve you well.  Its history first,
then."

He paused, choosing his words carefully.  "The sword was forged by the
finest smith in the Southland from a formula come out of the old
world.
It was tempered by heat and magic.
It was constructed of an alloy that renders it both light and strong.
It will not shatter in battle, whether struck by iron or magic.  It
will survive any test to which it is put.  It is imbued with Druid
magic.  It holds within its metal span the power of all the Druids who
ever were, those who came together at Paranor over the years and then
passed from this world to the next.  After it was forged, I carried it
to the Hadeshorn and summoned their spirits from the netherworld.  All
appeared, and one by one they passed before me and touched this
blade.
When the blade was forged, the Eilt Druin, the medallion of office of
the High Druids, the symbol of their power, was set within the
pommel.
You have seen it for yourself.  A hand holding forth a burning torch.
It was this that the spirits of the dead came to witness and to imbue
with the last of their earthly power, all that they could carry with
them beyond this life.

"All of which brings us to the sword's purpose.  It is a finely crafted
blade, a weapon of great strength and durability-but that alone is not
enough to render it capable of destroying the Warlock Lord.  The sword
is not meant to be used as other weapons.  It can be; most certainly it
shall.  But it was not forged for the sharpness of its blade or the
toughness of its metal, but for the power of the magic which resides
within it.  That magic, Elven King, is what will give you victory when
you face the creature Brona."

He took a deep breath, as if talking of this exhausted him.
His seamed face was weary and pale in the falling light.  "The power of
this sword, Jerle Shannara, is truth.  Truth, plain and simple.  Truth,
whole and unblemished.  Truth, with all deceptions and lies and facades
stripped away so that the one against whom the magic of the sword is
directed stands fully revealed.
It is a powerful weapon, one which Brona cannot stand against, for he
is cloaked by these same deceptions and lies and facades, by shadings
and concealments, and these are the trappings of his power.
He survives by keeping the truth about himself at bay.  Force him to
confront that truth, and he is doomed.

"I did not understand the secret of the sword's power when it was made
known to me at the Hadeshorn.  How can truth be strong enough to
destroy a creature as monstrous as the War lock Lord?  Where is the
Druid magic in this?  But after a time, I began to see.  The words
'Eilt Druin' mean literally 'Through Truth, Power."  It was the credo
of the Druids at their inception, the goal they set for themselves when
they assembled at Paranor, and their purpose among the Races from the
time of the First Council forward.  To provide Mankind with truth.
Truth to give knowledge and understanding.  Truth to facilitate
progress.  Truth to offer hope.  By doing so, the Druids could help the
Races rebuild."

The dark eyes blinked, distant and worn.  "What they were in life is
embodied now in the blade you bear, and you must find a way to make
their legacy serve your needs.  It will not be easy.  It is not as
simple as it first appears.  You will carry the blade in battle against
the Warlock Lord.  You will bring him to bay.  You will touch him with
the sword, and its magic will de stroy him.  All that is promised.  But
only if you are stronger in your determination, in your spirit, and in
your heart than he is."

The Elven King was shaking his head.  "How can I be all this?
Even if I accept what you have told me, and I do not know yet that I
can-it is difficult to think so-how can I be stronger than a creature
who can destroy even you?"

The old man reached down for the hand that gripped the sword and lifted
it so that the blade was poised between them.
"By first turning the sword's power upon yourself!"

Fear came into the Elven King's eyes and glittered sharply in the
light.  "Upon myself?  The Druid magic?"

"Listen to me, Jerle," the other soothed, tightening his grip so that
the arm that held the sword could not fall away, so that the sword was
a silver thread that bound them, bright and shining.  "What is required
of you will not be easy-I have told you that.  But it is possible.  You
must turn the power of the sword upon yourself.  You must let the magic
fill you and reveal to you the truths in your own life.  You must let
them be laid bare, ex posed for what they are, and confronted.  They
will be harsh, some of them.  They will be difficult to face.  We are
creatures who constantly reinvent ourselves and our lives in order to
survive the mistakes we have made and the failings we have ex posed.
In many ways, it is this that makes us vulnerable to a creature like
Brona.  But if you withstand the self-scrutiny that the sword demands,
you will emerge from the experience stronger than your adversary and
you will destroy him.  Because, Elven King, he cannot permit such
scrutiny of his life, for be yond the lies and half truths and
deceptions he is nothing!"

There was a long silence as the two men faced each other, eyes locked,
a measure of each being taken by the other.
"Truth," said the Elven King finally, his voice so soft the Druid could
barely hear him.  "Such a frail weapon."

"No," said the other at once.  "Truth is never frail.  It is the most
powerful weapon of all."

"Is it?  I am a warrior, a fighter.  Weapons are all I know weapons of
iron wielded by men of strength.  You are saying that none of this will
serve me, that I must abandon all of it.
You are saying that I must become something I have never been."
He shook his head slowly.  "I don't know if I can do that."

The old man released him, and the sword dropped away between them.
The dried parchment hands settled on the king's powerful shoulders,
gripping them.  There was unexpected strength in that aging body.
There was fierce determination in those eyes.

"You must remember who you are," the Druid whispered.
"You must remember how you got to be that way.  You have never failed
to confront a challenge.  You have never shunned a responsibility.  You
have never been afraid.  You have survived what would have killed
almost anyone else.  That is your history.  That is who and what you
are."

The hands tightened.  "You have great courage, Jerle.  You have a brave
heart.  But you give too much importance to Tay Trefenwyd's death and
not enough to your own life.  No, do not be angry.  This is not a
criticism of Tay, not a belittling of what his loss means to us.  It is
a comment on the need for you to remember that it is always the living
who matter.  Always.  Give your life the due it deserves, Elven King.
Be strong in the ways you must.  Do not dismiss your chances against
the Warlock Lord simply because the weapon with which you are given to
do battle is unfamiliar.  It is unfamiliar to him as well.  He knows of
man-made blades.  He will suspect yours to be just another.

Surprise him.  Give him a taste of another kind of metal."

Jerle Shannara moved away then, shaking his head, looking down at the
sword doubtfully.  "I know better than to disbelieve what I find
difficult to accept," he said, stopping before the window and looking
out into the rain.  "But this is hard.  This asks so much."  His mouth
tightened in a hard line.  "Why was I chosen for this?  It doesn't
make sense to me, So many others would be better suited to a weapon of
this sort.  I understand iron and brute strength.  This ... this clever
artifice is too obscure for me.  Truth as a weapon makes sense only in
terms of councils or politics.  It seems useless on a battlefield."

He turned toward the Druid.  "I would face the Warlock Lord without
hesitation if I could wield this sword as a simple blade forged of
metal and a master smith's skill.  I could accept it as a weapon
without question if I could bear it just as it appears."  Anguish
pulsed in his blue eyes.  "But this?  I am wrong for this, Bremen."

The Druid nodded slowly, not in agreement so much as in
understanding.
"But you are all we have, Jerle.  We cannot know why you were
selected.
It may be because you were fated to be come King of the Elves.  It may
be for reasons beyond what we can see.  The dead know things we
cannot.
Perhaps they could tell us, but they have not chosen to do so.  We must
accept this and go on.  You are to be the bearer of the sword.
You are to carry it into battle.  It is predestined.  There is no other
choice.
You must do the best you can."

His voice trailed off in a whisper.  Outside, the rain continued to
fall in a soft, steady patter, cloaking the forestland in a silver
shimmer.  Twilight had fallen, and the day had gone west with the
sun.
Arborlon was silent and damp within her forest shelter, a city slowly
pulling on her nighttime wrappings.  It was silent in the study, silent
in the summerhouse, and there might have been no one alive in all the
world but the two men who stood facing each other in the candlelit
gloom.

"Why must no one know of the sword's secret but me?"  Jerle Shannara
asked quietly.

The old man smiled sadly.  "You could answer your own question if you
chose, Elven King.  No one must know because no one would believe.
If your doubts of the sword's capabilities are so great, think of what
the doubts of your people will be.

Even Preia, perhaps.  The power of the sword is truth.  Who will
believe that such a simple thing can prevail against the power of the
Warlock Lord?"

Who, indeed?  thought the king.

"You have said it yourself.  A sword is a weapon of battle."
The smile turned to a weary sigh.  "Let the Elves be content with
that.
Show them the sword you carry, the weapon that has been bequeathed to
you, and say only that it will serve them well.  They require no
more."

Jerle Shannara nodded wordlessly.  No, he thought, they do not.
Belief is best when uncomplicated by reason.

He wished, in that sad, desperate moment of self-doubt and fear, of
silent acquiescence to a pact that he could neither em brace nor
forsake, that belief could be made so simple for him.

CHAPTER 28

BY MIDAFTERNOON of the following day, Jerle Shannara was nearing the
Valley of Rhenn and the confrontation that fate had ordained for him.
He had ridden out shortly after sunrise in the company of Preia,
Bremen, and a handful of advisors and his army commanders, taking with
him three companies of Elven Hunters, two afoot and one on horse.  Four
companies were already in place at the mouth of the valley, and two
more would follow on the morrow.  Left behind were the remaining
members of the Elven High Council under the leadership of First
Minister Vree Erreden, three companies of reserves, and the citizens
of the city and the refugees come off the land in fear of the impending
invasion.  Left behind as well were the arguments and the debates over
courses of action and political wisdom.  Few choices and little time 
remained, and the use put to both would be determined in large part by
the army that approached.

The Elven King said nothing to anyone of his conversation with the
Druid.  He chose to make no public announcement concerning the sword he
had been given.  He spoke of it to Preia alone, saying only that it was
a weapon the Warlock Lord could not stand against.  His stomach churned
and his face heated as he spoke the words, for his own belief was
fragile.  He worried as a dog would its bone the concept of truth as a
weapon of battle.  He replayed his conversation with the old man over
and over again as he rode east, lost in his own thoughts, so distanced
by them that several times when Preia, riding next to him, spoke, he
did not respond.  He rode armored and battle-ready.  The sword,
strapped to his back, was so light in comparison with the chain mail
and plate that it might have been forged of paper.  He thought often on
the feel of it as he traveled, its weight as ephemeral as the use to
which it was in tended to be put.  He could not grasp it as
possibility, could not settle on it as fact.  He needed to be shown how
it worked.  He needed to know from experience its use.  It was how his
mind worked.  He could not help himself.  What he could see and
feel-that was real.  All else was little more than words.

He did not reveal his doubts to Bremen.  He kept a smile on his face
when the old man approached.  He kept his confidence about him.
He did it for himself, but also for his people.  The army would draw
its confidence from him.  If the king seemed certain of himself, then
they would be as well.  He had always known that battles were won on as
little as that, and he had all ways responded.  This army, as this
nation, was his to command-to use well or badly.  What waited would
test them all in ways they had never been tested before.  Since this
was so, he intended to do his part.

"You have said nothing for hours," Preia observed at one point, waiting
until he was looking at her before she spoke to make certain he
heard.

"Haven't I?"  he replied.  He was almost surprised to find her there,
so wrapped up was he in his internal debate.  She rode a wiry
white-flecked gray called Ashes, weapons strapped all about her.  There
had never been any question about her coming, of course.  Their newly
adopted sons had been left in the care of others.  Like Jerle, Preia
Starle was born for battle.

"Something is bothering you," she declared, holding his gaze.
"Why don't you tell me what it is?"  

"Why, indeed?  He smiled in spite of
himself.  She knew him too well for him to pretend something different.
 Yet he could not speak of his doubt.  He could not, because it was
something he must resolve for himself.  No one could help him with it. 
Not now, at least-not when he had not found solid ground himself on
which to stand.

"I lack the words to explain," he said finally.  "I am still working it
through.  Be patient."

"It might help if you tried the words on me."

He nodded, looking past the beauty of her face and the intelligence
mirrored in her clear ginger eyes to the warmth and caring that resided
in her heart.  He felt different about her these days.
The distance he had always kept between them was gone.  They were bound
together so inextricably that he felt certain that whatever happened to
one, happened to the other even though it were death itself.

"Give me a little time," he told her gently.  "Then we will talk."

She reached for his hand and held it momentarily.  "I love you," she
said.

So it was that the afternoon found them coming up on the Rhenn, and
still he did not speak of what was troubling him and still she waited
for him to do so.  The day was bright and warm, the air sweet with the
smell of still damp grasses and leaves,the forest about them lush with
the infusion of the rains of the past few weeks.  The clouds had moved
on finally, but the ground remained soft, and the rutted trail swampy
where the Elves had traveled east over its worn track.
Reports had been coming in all day from where the bulk of the army had
settled its defense at the head of the valley.  The Northland army
continued to approach, coming slowly across the Streleheim from both
north and south, units arriving at varying rates of speed depending on
size and mobility, foot and horse and pack.  The army of the Warlock
Lord was huge and growing.  Already it filled the plains at the mouth
of the valley for as far as the eye could see.  The Elves were
outnumbered by at least four to one and the odds would increase as more
units arrived.  The reports were delivered by messengers in flat, even
tones, carefully kept devoid of emotion, but Jerle Shannara was trained
to decipher what was hidden in the small nuances of pause and
inflection, and he could detect the beginnings of fear.

He would have to do something to put a stop to it, he knew.  He would
have to do something quickly.

The realities of the situation were grim.  Riders had been sent east to
the Dwarves to beg their assistance, but the paths out were closed off
by Northland patrols, and it would be days before a rider could work
his way around them.  In the mean time, the Elves were on their own.
There was no one who would come to their aid.  The Trolls were a
subjugated people, their armies in thrall to the Warlock Lord.
The Gnomes were disorganized in the best of times and had no love of
the Elves in any event.  Men had withdrawn into their separate
city-states and lacked any sort of cohesive fighting force.  The
Dwarves were all that remained, if they survived.  There was still no
word on whether Raybur and his army had escaped the Northland
invasion.

So there was good reason to be afraid, Jerle Shannara thought as they
rode up from the forests at the west entrance to the Rhenn-
Elven King,companions and advisors, and three companies of fighting men.
There was good reason-but in this case reason must not be allowed to
prevail.

What, he pondered, could he do to overcome it?

BREMEN, riding some yards back with the boy Allanon amid the king's
advisors and the commanders of the Elven army, was pondering the same
question.  But it was not the Elves' fear that troubled him-it was the
king's.  For even though Jerle Shannara would not admit to it, or even
be cognizant of it for that matter, he was frightened.  His fear was
not obvious, even to him, but it was there nevertheless.  It was a
subtle, insidious stalker, lurking at the corners of his mind, awaiting
its chance.  Bremen had sensed it the day before, at the moment he had
revealed the power of the sword-there, lodged just behind the king's
eyes, back in the depths of his confusion and uncertainty, back where
it would fester and grow and in the end prove his undoing.
De spite the old man's efforts and the strength of his own conviction
concerning the power of the talisman, the king did not believe.  He
wanted to, but he did not.  He would try to find a way, of course, but
there was no guarantee he would ever do so.
It was something that Bremen had not considered in the course of all
that had happened.  Now he must do so.  He must put the matter right.

He rode all that day watching the king, observing the silence in which
he had wrapped himself, studying the hard set of his jaw and neck,
unpersuaded by the smiles and the outward confidence displayed to
others.  The war taking place inside Jerle Shannara was unmistakable.
He was struggling to accept what he had been told, but he was failing
in his effort.  He was brave and he was determined, so he would carry
the sword into battle and face the Warlock Lord as he had been told he
must.
But when he did so his lack of belief would surface, his doubt would
betray him, and he would die.  The inevitability of it was appalling.
Another, stronger voice than his own was needed.
The old man found himself wishing that Tay Trefenwyd were still
alive.
Tay had been close enough to Jerle Shannara that he might have found a
way to reach him, to convince him, to break down his misgivings and his
doubts.  Tay would have stood with the king against the Warlock Lord,
just as Bremen intended to do, but it would have meant more with Tay.
It might even have proved to be the difference.

But Tay was gone, so the voice and the strength that were needed must
come from someone else.

There was Allanon to think about, too.  From time to time the old man
glanced at the boy.  His young companion was still reticent, but he was
no longer refusing to speak.  Preia Starle was in part responsible for
this.  The boy was taken with her and listened to her advice.

After a time, he began to open up.
All of his family had been killed in the Northland raid, he had
revealed.  He had escaped because he had been elsewhere when the attack
had commenced, and he had hidden as it swept by him.  He had seen a
great many atrocities committed, but he would not speak of the
particulars.  Bremen did not press him.
It was enough that the boy had survived.

But there was still Galaphile's vision to consider, and that was a
matter less easily dismissed.  What did it mean-himself, standing with
the boy at the edge of the Hadeshorn in the presence of Galaphile's
shade, the bright, effervescent forms of the spirits of the dead
swirling above the roiling waters, the air dark and filled with cries,
and the boy's strange eyes fixed on him, staring?  Staring at what?
The Druid could not decide.  And what was the boy doing there in the
first place-there, in the Valley of Shale, at the waters of the
Hadeshorn, at a summoning of the dead, where no human was allowed,
where only he dared walk?

The vision haunted him.  Oddly, he was afraid for Allanon.
He was protective of him.  He found himself drawn to the boy in a way
he could not quite explain.  Perhaps it had something to do with the
fact of their aloneness.  Neither had a family, a people, or a home.
Neither really belonged anywhere.  In each there was a separateness
that was undeniable, and it was as much a state of mind as it was a
fact of life and just as unalterable.  That Bremen was a Druid set him
apart in ways he could not change, even if he wished.
But the boy was just as distanced-in part by the insight he clearly
possessed into other people's thinking, a gift that few appreciated-and
in part by an extraordinary perception that bordered on prescience.
Those strange eyes mirrored his keen mind and intellect, but they hid
his other gifts.  He looked at you as if he could see right through
you, and the look was not deceiving.  Allanon's ability to reveal you
was frightening.

What was Bremen to do with this boy?  What was he to make of him?
It was a day for dilemmas and unanswered questions, and the old man
bore the burden of their nagging weight in stoic silence as he rode
east.  The resolution of both, he supposed, would come soon enough.

WHEN THEY ARRIVED at the Valley of Rhenn, Jerle Shannara left the
others and with Preia rode out to survey the defenses and to let the
Elven Hunters know that he had arrived.  He was greeted warmly
everywhere, and he smiled and waved and told his men that everything
was going well and that they would have a surprise or two for the
Northlanders before long.

Then he rode down through the valley to have a look at the enemy
camp.
He took a guide this time, for the valley floor was already dotted with
traps, many of them new, and he did not want to stumble into one by
mistake.  Preia stayed with him, the queen as familiar a sight to the
soldiers by now as the king.
Neither of them spoke as they followed the guide's lead over grassy
hillocks, down broad rises, across a stretch of burned-out flats, and
up onto a promontory in the cliffs that warded the right flank to where
he could see out across the whole of the valley.  A small encampment of
scouts and runners was in place, keeping watch.  He greeted them, then
walked to the bluff edge for a look.

Before him stretched the seething mass of the Northland army, a huge
and sluggish morass of men, animals, wagons, and war machines cloaked
in dust and heat.  There was movement everywhere as stores and weapons
were brought up and sorted and units jockeyed for position along the
army's front.  Siege machines were being assembled and hauled to one
side.  The army had settled itself about a mile from the valley's east
end, out where it could see any attack being mounted against it, out
where it had room to spread and grow.  Jerle could feel the un easiness
of the men standing with him.  He could sense in Preia's silence her
cold appraisal of their chances.  This army that had come to invade
their homeland was a juggernaut that would not be turned away easily.

He took a long time to study it after that first glance.  He looked at
where the supplies and equipment and weapons were being placed.  He
counted the siege machines and the catapults.
He sought out the standards of the companies assembled to fight him and
made a rough count of cavalry and foot, both light and heavy.
He watched the approach of several supply trains from out of both the
north and south Streleheim.  He considered his options carefully.

Then he remounted and rode back to the far end of the valley and
called together his commanders and advisors for a council of war.

They gathered in a tent set well back from the front lines of the Elven
defense, Home Guard set all about to insure privacy.
Preia was there, of course, along with Bremen.  Kier Joplin commanded
the horse, and Rustin Apt and Cormorant Etrurian the foot soldiers.

There were captains Prekkian and Trewithen, of theBlack Watch and Home
Guard respectively.  There was one eyed Arn Banda, who commanded the
archers.  These were the heart of his command, the men on whom he most
relied, the men he must convince if they were to have any chance
against the army that would come against them.

"Well met, my friends," he greeted, standing before them, loose and
easy, his armor removed now.  They were seated in chairs arranged in a
wide circle so that he could see or approach any or all if the need
arose.  "I have been to the head of the valley and seen the army that
threatens us.  I think our course is clear.  We must attack."

There was a gasp of surprise and dismay, of course-he had expected as
much.  "At night!"  he shouted amid the sudden din.  "Now!"

Rustin Apt, aging and powerful, so broad and compact it seemed nothing
could move him once he set his feet, surged from his chair.
"My lord, no!  Attack?  You can't be .  . ."

"Careful, Rustin."  The king cut him short with a sharp motion.
"I can be or do anything in the right situation.  You know me well
enough.  Now, listen a moment, This Northland army languishes before
us, fat and bold, thinking itself too big to be trifled with, thinking
us safely settled in the protection of our defenses.  But it grows and
it grows, and our Elven Hunters see this and despair.  We cannot sit by
and do nothing until it grows so big it will swallow us in one gulp.
We cannot sit by and wait for the inevitable attack.  We must carry the
battle to them, now, on our terms, in a time of our choosing, when we
are ready and they are not."

"All well and good," said Kier Joplin quietly.  He was small and
compact with quick, dark eyes.  "But what part of the army will you use
to conduct this assault?  Darkness will help, but horsemen will be
heard from a long way off and foot soldiers will be cut to pieces
before they can retreat to safety."

There was a muttered assent.  Jerle nodded.  "Your reasoning follows my
own.  But suppose the enemy can't find us?  Suppose we become invisible
just when they think they have us?  Sup pose that we attack in
sequence, a strike here, a strike there, but give them nothing more
than shadows to spar with?"

Now there was silence.  "How would you do that?"  Joplin asked
finally.

"I will tell you.  But first I want you in agreement with my
thinking.
I am convinced we must do something if we are to bolster the army's
confidence in itself.  I see it flagging.  Am I right in my
assessment?"

Silence once more.  "You are," Joplin said finally.

"Kier, you have put your finger on the danger an attack faces.
Now I want you to consider the possible gains.  If we can throw them
off balance, disrupt them, unnerve them, even hurt them a little, we
gain time and confidence both.  Sitting here waiting gains us
neither."

"Agreed," said Cormorant Etrurian quickly.  He was a thin faced,
rawhoned fellow, well seasoned in the border wars, a former aide to old
Apt. "On the other hand, a defeat would be disastrous at this
juncture.  It might even spur an earlier attack on our defenses."

"You might be wrong about them not expecting us as well," voiced his
aged mentor, huffing back to his feet.  "We don't know what might have
happened with the Dwarves.  This is a battle-tested army we face, and
they may know more tricks than we do."

"We are badly outnumbered as it is," Etrurian added with a scowl.
"My lord, this is just too dangerous a tactic."

Jerle nodded at each new comment, biding his time, waiting to speak
until they had vented all their objections.  He glanced at Preia, who
was watching him carefully, then at Bremen, whose expressionless face
revealed nothing of what he was thinking.  He looked from one face to
the next, trying to decide how many of those gathered he could count
firmly in his camp.
Preia, of course.  But the others, his commanders and Bremen alike,
were still making up their minds or had already decided against him.
He didn't want to force the matter on them if they would not support
it, king or no, but he was firmly decided.
How to persuade them, then?

The voices of opposition died away.  Jerle Shannara straightened.
"We are friends here, all of us," he began.  "We are working for the same
end.  I know the enormity of the task before us.
We are all that stands between the Warlock Lord and the devastation of
the Four Lands.  Perhaps we are the only fighting force left with the
strength to face him.  So caution is necessary.
But so is risk.  There can be no victory without risk-certainly none
here, in this place and time, against this enemy.  There is an element
of risk in any battle, an element of chance.  We can not ignore that.
What we must do is minimize it."

He walked close to Rustin Apt and knelt before him.  The seasoned
commander's hard eyes grew startled.  "What if I could show you a way
to attack this enemy by night-a way that has a strong chance of
succeeding, that risks only a few of us, and that if successful will
disrupt him sufficiently that we will gain both confidence and time?"

The old man looked uncertain.  "Can you do that?"  he growled.

"Will you stand with me if I can?"  the king pressed, ignoring the
question.  He glanced left and right.  "Will you all?"

There were murmurs of approval.  He looked at them in turn, made them
meet his gaze, made them give him their as sent.  He nodded to each,
drawing them to him with his eyes and smile, binding them to him with
their unspoken promise, making them a part of the plan he had formed.

"Listen closely, then," he whispered, and he told them what he would
do.

THE ATTACK DID NOT TAKE PLACE that night, but on the night following.
It took another day to complete preparations, to choose the men who
would participate, and then to send Kier Joplin and his riders north
and Cormorant Etrurian and his Hunters south, both commands departing
at sunrise and staying within the concealment provided by the forests
and bluffs so that they could make their way to their respective
destinations unseen.  Their commands were necessarily small, for
stealth and swiftness would serve their cause far better than size.
Each had specific instructions on what to do and when to do it.
Coordinating the various elements of the assault called for precise
timing.  If the strikes did not take place in their proper sequence,
the assault would fail.

Jerle Shannara led the center group, a company composed of archers and
Home Guard.  The fighting would be most fierce where they went, and he
would not allow anyone else to stand in his place.  Bremen was
furious.
He approved of the plan.  He applauded the king's innovation and
daring.  But it was madness for the king to lead the attack himself.

"Think, Elven King!  If you fall here, all is lost no matter what is
gained!"  He had made his argument to Jerle and Preia Starle after the
others had departed.  The wispy hair and beard had flown in all
directions with the old man's angry gestures.
"You cannot risk your own life in this!  You must stay alive for your
confrontation with Brona!"

They had stood close to one another amid the shadows, the day gone to
dusk.  Outside, preparations were already under way for the morrow's
strike.  Jerle Shannara had convinced his commanders, the force of his
arguments and reason too strong for any to stand against, too
persuasive for any to ignore.  One by one, they had capitulated-Joplin
first, then the others.  In the end, they had been as enthusiastic
about the plan as he was.

"He is right," Preia Starle had agreed.  "Listen to him."

"He is wrong," Jerle had replied, his voice quiet, his manner calm,
holding them both speechless with the force of his conviction.
"A king must lead by example.  Here, particularly, in this situation,
where so much is at risk.  I cannot ask another to do what I would not
do myself.  The army looks to me.  These men know I lead, that I do not
stay behind.  They will expect no less of me here, and I will not
disappoint them."

He would not give in on this.  He would not compromise.
So he was leading as he said he would, the misgivings of the Druid
notwithstanding, and Preia, as always, was with him.
They crept out of the dark at midnight, slipped from the valley, and
crossed the plains toward the enemy camp.  They were only several
hundred strong, with twice as many archers as Home Guard.  A handful
crept ahead, as silent as ghosts, and dispatched the Northland
sentries that patrolled the camp perimeter.  Soon the main body of the
attack force was less than fifty yards out.  There they crouched,
weapons in hand, waiting.

When the attack came, it was sharp and unrelenting.  It began north,
with Kier Joplin.  The Elven Commander had bound with heavy fabric the
hooves of his men's horses and then walked two hundred riders down out
of the north Streleheim after sunset.  When the Elves were less than a
hundred yards from the north perimeter of the camp they removed the
baffles, waited until an hour past midnight, then mounted their horses
and charged.  They were on top of the Northlanders before the alarm
could be given.  They struck at the flanks of the latest sup ply train,
newly arrived and not yet unloaded, its handlers waiting for the
morning light.  The Elves snatched brands from the smoldering watch
fires as they rode in and set the wagons ablaze.  Then they wheeled
across the staging area for the siege machines and fired the nearest of
those as well.  Flames soared skyward as the riders raced through the
camp and disappeared again into the night.  They were gone so fast that
a response was still forming when the second strike commenced.

This one came from Cormorant Etrurian to the southwest.
He waited until he saw the flames of the first strike and then 
attacked.  With five hundred foot soldiers already in place, he drove a
wedge deep into the enemy horse camp, killing handlers and setting
free their animals, chasing them into the night.
Hand-to-hand fighting was fierce for a few moments, but then the Elves
swung west, raking the camp perimeter as they retreated, breaking
quickly for the darkness of the plains.

The Northland response was swifter this time, but confused, for the
attack seemed to be coming from everywhere.  Massive Rock Trolls, only
half-armored, but gripping huge battle-axes and pikes, swept aside
everything that stood in their path as they sought to engage their
attackers.  But siege machines and supply wagons were burning north,
and the horses were scattered south, and no one seemed certain where
the enemy could be found.  Bremen, hidden in the flats with Jerle
Shannara's command, had used his magic to cloak the Elves and to
create the illusion of attackers at points where none were present.
The old man could sustain that for only a short time, but long enough
to confuse even the deadly Skull Bearers.

By then, Jerle Shannara's force had joined the attack.
Flanked and protected by the Home Guard, the archers set themselves in
rows facing the Northland perimeter, drew back their longbows, and sent
a hail of arrows into the enemy.
Screams rose as the arrows found their mark.  Volley after volley
showered down on the Northlanders as they sought to rise and arm
themselves.  The king held his men in place for as long as he dared and
then held them longer still.  A rush of Gnomes charged out of the camp
in a maddened frenzy, trying to reach the bowmen, but the archers
simply lowered their fire and raked the disorganized counterattack
until it broke apart.

Finally Jerle Shannara began to disengage his men, the ranks
withdrawing in turn, one always covering the retreat of the others.
The men under Cormorant Etrurian had already gone past, trotting
swiftly through the night, vague shadows on plains swept by clouds of
smoke and ash from the fires.  Rock Trolls appeared, huge, cumbersome
behemoths marching out of the garish firelight, their pikes and
battle-axes held ready.  Arrows were of no use against them.  The
bowmen fell back, running through the thin line of Home Guard that yet
held fast.  Jerle withdrew his men quickly, having no wish to do battle
with Rock Trolls this night.  No enemy cavalry would pursue, for the
Northland horses were captured or scattered.  The Trolls were all they
must avoid.

But the Trolls came on more quickly than the king had expected.
The Home Guard stood virtually alone on the plains now, the bowmen and
Elven Hunters fled back to the safety of the Rhenn, the horsemen under
Kier Joplin returned north.
Gnome arrows flew out of the glare of the Northland camp, sent by
archers rushed to the fore.  Several of the Home Guard went down and
did not move.  Bremen, who had come onto the plains with the attackers
to lend his protection to the king, brushed past them, black robes
flying, and threw Druid fire into the teeth of the advancing Trolls.
The grasslands exploded in flames, and for a moment the pursuit broke
apart.  The Home Guard began to fall back anew, the old man and the
king in their midst, besieged on all sides as they hastened toward the
shelter of the valley.  Smoke rolled across the flats, carried on the
back of a sudden wind, filled with heat and ash.  Preia Starle darted
ahead, trying to find a path through the haze.  But the confusion
brought on by the smoke and the howls of their pur suers was too
great.
The small band of Home Guard broke apart, some going one way with
Bremen, some another with the king.  Jerle Shannara called out, heard
his name called in re sponse, and suddenly everything disappeared in
the smoke.

Then something huge crashed into those who fled with the king, sending
-the Home Guard spinning away into the night, flinging aside those
closest as if they were stuffed with straw.  A massive form
materialized, a brutish monster in service to the Dark Lord, called
from the netherworld and abroad with the night, all teeth and claws and
scales.  It came at Jerle Shannara with a howl, and the king barely had
time to draw free his sword.  Up flashed the magical blade, its bright
surface fiery in the near dark.  Now!  thought the king, wheeling to
strike.  Now, we shall see!  He willed the sword's magic forth, calling
on it to protect him as the creature closed, summoning its great
power.
But nothing happened.  The beast reached for him, fully twice as tall
and again as broad, and in desperation the king struck at it as he
would at any enemy.  The sword hammered into the beast, the force of
the blow slowing the attack.  But still no magic appeared.  Jerle
Shannara felt his stomach knot with sudden fear.
The beast was cut at from either side by Home Guard come back into the
fray, but it smashed the life out of the closest, brushed aside the
rest, and came on.

In that moment Jerle Shannara realized that he could not compel the
sword's magic and that any hope he might have had that it would protect
him was lost.  He had thought, despite what Bremen had admonished, that
there was magic of a sort that would strike down an enemy-something of
fire, some thing with an otherworldly edge.  But truth was what the
sword revealed, the old man had insisted, and it seemed plain now that
truth was all the sword could offer.  Fear threatened to paralyze the
King, but with a fierce cry he launched himself at the attacking
beast.
With both hands wrapped about the pommel of the broadsword, he defended
himself in the only way left to him.  The sword's bright blade flashed
downward and cut deep into the massive creature, dark blood spurting at
the juncture of the blow.  But the beast broke past the king's guard,
knocked aside his weapon, and threw him to the ground.

Then Bremen appeared, come out of the dark like an avenging wraith,
hands thrust forward, bathed in Druid fire.  The fire lanced from his
fingertips in a frantic burst and slammed into the monster as it
reached for the king, enveloping it, consuming it, turning it into a
writhing torch.  The beast reared back, shrieked in fury, turned, and
raced away into the night, flames trailing after.  Bremen did not wait
to see what became of it.  He reached down for the king, Elves of the
Home Guard reappearing to assist him, and hauled Jerle Shannara to his
feet.

"The sword the king began brokenly, shaking his head in despair, 
But Bremen stopped him with a hard look, saying, "Later, when there is time
and privacy, Elven King.  You are alive, You fought well, and the
attack succeeded.  That is enough for one night's work.  Now come,
hurry away, before other creatures find us."

They fled once more into the night, the king, the Druid, and a handful
of Home Guard.  Smoke and ash chased after them, and farther off,
lighting the whole of the horizon like beacons, the fires from the
supply wagons and the siege machines burned on.  Preia Starle returned
out of the dark, breathless, harried, eyes revealing both anger and
fear.  She shouldered her way under Jerle Shannara's left arm and
bolstered him as he walked.  The king did not resist.  His eyes met her
own and looked away.  His mouth was set.

The fear that smoldered in the dark corners of his consciousness had
burst forth in flames this night-fear that some how the sword with
which he had been entrusted was not right for him and would not respond
when needed.  It had emerged to challenge him, and he had failed to
meet that challenge.  If not for Bremen, he would be dead.  A thing of
lesser magic would have finished him, a thing of far less power than
the Warlock Lord.  Doubt riddled his resolve.  All he had believed
possible just hours earlier was lost.  The magic of the sword was wrong
for him.  The magic would not answer to his call.  It needed someone
else, someone more attuned to its use.  He was not that man.  He was
not.

He could hear the words echo in the pounding of his heart, cold and
certain.  He tried to close his mind and his ears to the sound, but
found he could not.  In hopeless despair, he ran on.

CHAPTER 29

WITH BREMEN GONE WEST to bear the Druid sword to the Elves, Kinson
Ravenlock and Mareth turned east along the Silver River in search of
the Dwarves.  They traveled that first day through the hill country
that buttressed the river's north bank, winding their way steadily
closer to the forests of the Anar.  Mist clung to the hills with dogged
persistence, then began to burn away as the sun rose higher in the
midday sky.  By early afternoon, the travelers had reached the Anar and
started in.  Here the land flattened and smoothed.
Sunlight pierced the leafy canopy and dappled the earthen carpet.
They had enough food and water for that day only, and they divided it
carefully when they paused for their lunch, reserving enough for
dinner in the event that no better choice presented itself.


The Anar was bright with the green of the trees and the blue of the
river, with shafts of sunlight from the mostly cloudless sky, and with
birdsong and the chattering of small creatures darting through the
undergrowth.  But the trail was trampled and strewn with the leavings
of the Northland army, and no human life revealed itself anywhere.
Now and again the faint scent of charred wood and old ashes wafted on
the wind, and moments of silence would descend-a quiet so intense it
caused the man and the woman to look about guardedly.  They passed
small cottages and outbuildings, some still standing, some burned out,
but all vacant.  No Dwarves appeared.  No one passed them on the
trail.

"We shouldn't be surprised," Mareth observed at one point when Kinson
had remarked on the subject.  "The Warlock Lord has only just withdrawn
from the Eastland.  The Dwarves must still be in hiding."

It seemed a logical conclusion, but it bothered Kinson nevertheless to
pass through country so improbably deserted.  The absence of even the
most transient peddler was disturbing to him.  It suggested that there
was no reason for anyone to be here anymore, as if life no longer had a
purpose in these forests.
It gave him pause to think that an entire people could vanish as if
they had never been.  He had no frame of reference for an eradication
of this magnitude.  What if the Dwarves had been annihilated?  What if
they had simply ceased to exist?  The Four Lands would never recover
from such a loss.  They would never be the same.

As they walked, content to stay silent, mulling over their separate
thoughts, the Borderman and the Druid apprentice did not speak to each
other much.  Mareth walked with her head up and her eyes forward, and
her gaze seemed directed to something beyond what either of them could
see.  Kinson found him self wondering if she was pondering the
possibility of her heritage in light of what she had learned from
Bremen.  That she was not his daughter, after thinking for so long that
she must be, would be shock enough for anyone.  That she was perhaps
the daughter of one of the dark things that served the Warlock Lord was
worse.  Kinson did not know how he would react to such a revelation.
He did not think he would accept it easily.  It did not matter, he
thought, that Bremen insisted it could have no bearing on the sort of
person Mareth was.  There was more than logic at issue here.  Mareth
was well-reasoned and intelligent, but the vicissitudes of her
childhood and the complexities of her adult life had rendered her
vulnerable to an undermining of the few beliefs she had managed to hold
on to.

From time to time he considered speaking to her of this.  He considered
telling her she was the person she had always believed herself to be,
he could see the goodness in her, he had witnessed the force of it
firsthand, and she could never be betrayed by so tenuous a heritage as
her blood.  But he could not think of a way to frame the words so as
not to make them appear condescending, and he was afraid to risk that
happening.
She seemed content simply to have him there, and in spite of his rude
remarks when Bremen had suggested she come with him, he was secretly
happy that she had.  He had grown comfortable with her, with the
history they shared, with their talks, with the way in which each knew
what the other was thinking, and in the closeness he felt toward her in
dozens of small ways he could not easily define.  The latter came from
such small things as the sound of her voice, the way she looked at him,
and the sense of companionship that transcended simply the sharing of
the journey.  It was enough, he decided in the end, that he was there
if she should decide she needed to talk.  She knew that her father's
identity and origins made no difference to him.  She knew that none of
it mattered.

They reached Culhaven at sunset, the light fading, the air cooling, the
smell of death harsh and pungent amid the shadows.  The home city of
the Dwarves had been burned to the ground, and the land ravaged.
Nothing remained but scorched earth, rubble, a few burned timbers, and
scattered bones.  Many of the dead had been left to lie where they had
fallen.  They were indistinguishable from one another by now, but the
smallness of the bones revealed that some had been children.  The
Borderman and the apprentice Druid came out of the trees into the
clearing where the city had stood, paused in sad appraisal, and then
began to walk slowly through the carnage.  The attack was weeks old,
the fires long burned away, the land already re generating from beneath
the ruins, small green shoots poking up out of the ash.
But Culhaven was empty of human life, and across the whole of its
blackened sprawl the silence hung in curtains of indifference.

At the center of the city they found a vast pit into which hundreds of
Dwarves had been thrown and their bodies burned.

"Why didn't they run?"  Mareth asked softly.  "Why did they stay?
They must have known.  They must have been warned."

Kinson stayed silent.  She knew the answer as well as he did.
Hope could play you false.  He looked off into the distance, across the
broad expanse of the ruins.  Where were the Dwarves who were still
alive?  That was the question that needed answering now.

They moved on through the destruction, their pace quickening, for
there was nothing left to see that they had not all ready seen in
abundance.  The light was fading, and they wanted to be well beyond the
ruins when they set their camp for the night.  They would find no food
or water here.  They would find no shelter.  There was nothing to keep
them.  They walked on, following the river to where it wound sluggishly
out of the deep woods east.  Perhaps things would be better farther on,
Kinson thought hopefully.  Perhaps farther on there would be life.

Something scurried through the rubble to one side, causing the
Borderman to start.  Rats.  He had not seen them before, but of course
they were there.  Other scavengers as well, he supposed.  He felt a
chill pass through him, triggered by a memory of a time in his boyhood
when he had fallen asleep in a cavern he was exploring and had awakened
to find rats crawling over him.  Death had seemed oddly close in those
brief, horrifying moments.

"Kinson!"  hissed Mareth suddenly and stopped.

A cloaked figure was standing before them, unmoving.  A man, it
appeared-there was enough of him revealed to determine this much at
least.  Where he had come from was a mystery.  He had simply
materialized, as if conjured from the air itself, but he must have been
in hiding, waiting for them.  He stood close to the riverbank on which
they walked, shadowed by the night and the remains of a stone wall.  He
did not threaten them; he simply stood there, waiting for them to
approach.

Kinson and Mareth exchanged a quick glance.  The man's face was
concealed in the shadows of his hood and his arms and legs in the folds
of his cloak.  They could tell nothing of who he was, nothing of his
identity.

"Hello," Mareth ventured softly.  She held the staff Bremen had given
her like a shield before her.

There was no reply, no movement.

"Who are you?"  she pressed.

"Mareth," the other called to her in a slow, whispery voice.

Kinson stiffened.  The voice had the feel of rat's feet and the
presence of death.  He was back in that cave again, a boy once more.
The voice scraped against his nerve endings like metal on stone.

"Do you know me?"  Mareth asked in surprise.  The voice did not seem to
trouble her.

"I do," said the other.  "We all do, those of us who are your family.
We have waited for you, Mareth.  We have waited a long time."

Kinson could hear the catch in her voice.  "What are you talking
about?"  she asked quickly.  "Who are you?"

"Perhaps I am the one you have been searching for.  Perhaps I am he.
Would you think harshly of me if I were?  Would you be angry if I told
you I was .  . ."

"No!"  she cried out sharply.

"Your father?"

The hood tilted back, and the face within revealed itself.  It was a
hard, strong face, and the similarities to Bremen's were more than
token, though the man before them was younger.  But the resemblance to
Mareth was unmistakable.  He let the young woman look on him
momentarily, let her study him well.  He seemed oblivious of Kinson.

He smiled faintly.  "You see yourself in me, don't you, child?
You see how alike we are?  Is it so hard to accept?  Am I so repulsive
to you?"

"Something is wrong here," Kinson warned softly.

But Mareth didn't seem to hear him.  Her eyes were fixed on the man who
said he was her father, on the dark-cloaked stranger who had appeared
so unexpectedly before them.  How?
How had he known where to look?

"You are one of them!"  Mareth snapped coldly at the stranger.
"One of those who serve the Warlock Lord!"

The strong features did not recoil.  "I serve who I choose, just as you
do.  But your service to the Druids was prompted by your search for me,
was it not?  I can read it in your eyes, child.
You have no real ties to the Druids.  Who are they to you?  I am your
father.  I am your flesh and blood, and your ties to me are clear.
Oh, I understand your misgivings.  I am not a Druid.  I am pledged to
another cause, one that you have opposed.  All your life, you have
heard that I am evil.  But how bad am I, do you think?  Are the stories
all true?  Or are they perhaps shaded by those who tell them to serve a
purpose of their own?  How much of what you know can you believe?"

Mareth shook her head slowly.  "Enough, I think."

The stranger smiled.  "Then perhaps I should not be your father."

Kinson watched her hesitate.  "Are you?"

"I don't know.  I don't know if I want to be.  I would not wish your
hatred if I were.  I would wish your understanding and your
tolerance.
I would wish for you to listen to all that I would tell you of my life
and of how it affects you.  I would wish for an opportunity to explain
why the cause I serve is neither evil nor destructive, but premised on
truths that would liberate us all."
The stranger paused.  "Remember that your mother loved me.
Could her love have been so misguided?  Could her trust in me have been
so badly misplaced?"

Kinson felt something shift imperceptibly-a current of air, a hint of
smoke, a ripple in the river's flow-something he could not see, but
could only feel.  The short hairs on the back of his neck stiffened.
Who was this stranger?  Where had he come from?  If he was Mareth's
father, how had he found them here?  How did he know who she was?

"Mareth!" he warned again.

"What if the Druids have been wrong in all that they have done?"  the
stranger asked suddenly.  "What if everything you have believed is
premised on lies and half truths and misrepre sentations that go all
the way back to the beginning of time?"

"That isn't possible," Mareth answered at once.

"What if you are betrayed by those you have trusted?"  the stranger
pressed.

"Mareth, no!"  hissed Kinson in fury.  But instantly the stranger's
eyes settled on him, and suddenly Kinson Ravenlock could neither move
nor speak.  He was frozen in place, as much so as if he had been turned
to stone.

The stranger's eyes shifted back to Mareth.  "Look at me, child.
Look closely."  To Kinson's horror, Mareth did.  Her face had assumed a
vacant, faraway look, as if she were seeing some thing entirely
different from what was before her.  "You are one of us," the stranger
intoned gently, the words soft and coaxing.
"You belong with us.  You have our power.  You have our passion.
You have all that is ours save one thing only.  You lack our cause.
You must embrace it, Mareth.  You must accept that we are right in what
we seek.  Strength and long life through use of the magic.  You have
felt it flowing through you.  You have wondered how it can be made your
own.  I will show you how.  I will teach you.  You need not shun what
is part of you.  You need not be afraid.  The secret is in giving heed
to what it asks of you, of not trying to restrain it, of not fleeing
from its need.  Do you understand me?"


Mareth nodded vaguely.  Kinson saw an imperceptible change in the
features of the stranger before them.  No longer was he quite so
human.
No longer did he resemble either Bremen or Mareth.  He was, instead,
becoming something else.

Slowly, painfully, the Borderman strained against the invisible chains
that bound his muscles.  Carefully, he eased his hand along his thigh
to where his long knife was sheathed.

"Father?"  Mareth called out suddenly.  "Father, why did you abandon
me?"

There was a long silence in the deepening night.  Kinson's hand closed
about the handle of his knife.  His muscles screamed with pain, and his
mind felt drugged.  This was a trap of the same sort as the one the
Warlock Lord had set for them at Paranor!  Had the stranger been
waiting for them, or just for whoever happened through?  Had he known
that Mareth, in particular, would come?  Had he hoped it might be
Bremen?  His fingers tightened on the knife.

The stranger's hand lifted free of the cloak and beckoned to the young
woman.  The hand was gnarled, and the fingers were clawed.  But Mareth
did not seem to see.  She took a small step forward.

"Yes, child, come to me," the stranger urged, his eyes gone as red as
blood, fangs showing behind a smile as wicked as a snake's strike.
"Let me explain everything to you.  Take my hands, your father's hands,
and I will tell you what you are meant to know.  Then you will
understand.  You will see that I am right in what I tell you.  You will
know the truth."

Mareth took another step forward.  The hand that held the Druid staff
lowered slightly.

In the next instant Kinson Ravenlock wrenched free of the magic that
ensnared him, threw off its shackles, and unsheathed his long knife.
In a single fluid motion, he flung the knife at the stranger.
Mareth cried out in fear-for herself or her father or even Kinson, the
Borderman could not tell.  But the stranger transformed in the blink of
an eye, changing from something human to something that was definitely
not.  One arm swept up, and a sheet of wicked green fire burst forth,
incinerating the long knife in midair.

What stood before them now in a haze of smoke and flickering light was
a Skull Bearer.

A second burst of fire exploded from the creature's clawed fingers, but
Kinson was already moving, flinging himself into Mareth and carrying
her from the trail and into a pocket of ash coated rubble.
He was back on his feet instantly, not waiting to see if she had
recovered, dodging around a wall and toward the Skull Bearer.  He would
have to be quick now if he wanted to live.  The creature was slouching
toward them, fire sparking from the tips of its fingers, red eyes
burning out of the shadows beneath its hood.  Kinson darted across an
open space, the fire just missing him as he threw himself down and
rolled behind the skeleton of a small tree.  The Skull Bearer swung
toward him, whispering words insidious and hateful, words filled with
dark promise.

Kinson drew out his broadsword.  He had lost his bow, which might have
made a better weapon-though in truth he possessed no weapon that could
make a difference.  Stealth and guile had protected him in the past,
and neither was of any use now.

"Mareth!"  he cried out in desperation.

Then he launched himself from his hiding place and charged toward the
Skull Bearer.

The winged hunter shifted to meet the attack, hands lifting, claws
sparking.  Kinson could tell already that he was too far away to close
with the monster before the fire struck.  He dodged to his left,
looking for cover.  There was none to be found.  The Skull Bearer rose
before him, dark and forbidding.
Kinson tried to cover his head.

Then Mareth cried out sharply, "Father!"

The Skull Bearer whirled at the sound of the young woman's voice, but
already the Druid fire was lancing from the raised tip of Mareth's
staff.  It slammed into the winged hunter's body and flung it backward
against a wall.  Kinson stumbled and fell trying to shield his eyes.
Mareth's face was harsh in the killing light, and her eyes were cast of
stone.  She sent the fire into the Skull Bearer in a steady stream,
burning through its defenses, through its toughened skin, and into its
heart.  The creature screamed in hatred and pain, flinging up its arms
as if to fly away.  Then the Druid fire consumed it completely, and it
was turned to ash.

Mareth threw down the staff in fury, and the Druid fire died away.

"There, Father," she hissed at the remains, "I have given you my hands
to hold in yours.  Now explain to me about truth and lies.  Go on,
Father, speak to me!"


Tears began to stream down her small, dark face.  The night closed
about once more, and the silence returned.  Kinson climbed slowly to
his feet, walked to her, and carefully drew her against him.  "I don't
think he has much to say on the subject, do you?"

She shook her head wordlessly against his chest.  "I was such a fool.
I couldn't seem to help myself.  I couldn't stop myself from listening
to him.  I almost believed him!  All those lies!  But he was so
persuasive.  How did he know about my father?  How did he know what to
say?"

Kinson stroked her hair.  "I don't know.  The dark things of this world
sometimes know the secrets we keep hidden.  They discover our fears and
doubts and use them against us.  Bremen told me that once."
He lowered his chin to her hair.  "I think this creature was waiting
for any of us to come-for you, me, Bremen, Tay, or Risca-any of those
who threaten his Master.  This was a trap of the same sort set by the
Warlock Lord at Paranor, designed to snare whoever walked into it.  But
Brona used a Skull Bearer this time, so he must be very afraid of what
we might do."

"I almost killed us," she whispered.  "You were right about me."

"I was wrong," he replied at once.  "Had I come alone, had you not been
with me, I would be dead.  You saved my life.  And you did so with your
magic.  Look at the ground on which you are standing, Mareth.
Then look at yourself."

She did as he asked.  The ground was blackened and scorched, but she
was untouched.  "Don't you see?"  he asked softly.  "The staff
channeled your magic, just as Bremen said it would.  It carried off the
part that would threaten you and kept only what was needed.  You have
gained control of the magic at last."

She looked at him steadily, and the sadness in her eyes was palpable.
"It doesn't matter anymore, Kinson.  I don't want control of the
magic.  I don't want anything to do with it.  I am sick of it.
I am sick of myself-of who I am, of where I came from, of who my
parents were, of everything about me."

"No," he said quietly, holding her gaze.

"Yes.  I wanted to believe that creature or I would not have been so
mesmerized.  If you hadn't broken his hold on me, we would both be
dead.  I was useless.  I am so caught up in this search to discover the
truth about myself that I endanger every one around me."  Her mouth
tightened.  "My father, he called himself.  A Skull Bearer.  Lies this
time, but maybe not the next.
Perhaps it is true.  Perhaps my father is a Skull Bearer.  I don't want
to know.  I don't want anything more to do with magic and Druids and
winged hunters and talismans."  The tears had started again, and her
voice was shaking.  "I am finished with this business.  Let someone
else go on with you.  I quit."

Kinson looked off into the darkness.  "You can't do that, Mareth," he
told her finally.  "No, don't say anything, just listen to me.  You
can't because you are a better person than that.  You have to go on.
You are needed to help those who cannot help themselves.  It isn't a
responsibility you went looking for, I realize.  But there it is, your
burden to bear, given to you because you are one of only a few who can
shoulder it.  You, Bremen, Risca, and Tay Trefenwyd-the last of the
Druids.  Just the four of you, because there is no one else, and
perhaps there never will be."

"I don't care," she murmured dully.  "I don't."

"Yes, you do," he insisted.  "You all do.  If you didn't, the struggle
with the Warlock Lord would have been finished long ago, and we would
all be dead."

They stood looking at each other in the ensuing silence, like statues
left standing amid the ruins of the city.

"You are right," she said finally, her voice so soft he could barely
hear her.  "I do care."

She moved against him, lifted her face to his, and kissed him on the
mouth.  Her arms slipped around his waist and held him to her.  Her
kiss lasted a long time, and it was more than a kiss of friendship or
gratitude.  Kinson Ravenlock felt some thing grow warm deep inside that
he hadn't even known was there.  He kissed Mareth back, his own arms
coming about her.

When the kiss was finished, she stayed pressed against him for a
moment, her head lowered into his chest.  He could feel her heart
beat.
He could hear her breathing.  She stepped back and looked at him
without speaking, her huge, dark eyes filled with wonder.

She bent down to pick up the fallen staff and began walking toward the
woods again, following the Silver River east.  Kinson stared after her
until she was only a shadow, trying to make sense of things.  Then he
gave it up and hurried to catch her.

THEY WALKED FOR TWO DAYS afterward and encountered no one.

All of the villages, farms, cottages, and trading centers that they
passed were burned out and deserted.  There were signs of the Northland
army's passage and of the Dwarves' flight, but there were no people to
be found.  Birds flew across the skies, small animals darted through
the undergrowth, insects hummed in the brambles, and fish swam in the
waters of the Silver River, but no humans appeared.  The man and the
woman kept careful watch for any more of the Skull Bearers or any of
the other myriad netherworld creatures that served the Warlock Lord,
but none came.  They found food and water, but never in abundance and
always in the wild.  The days were slow and hot, the sticky swelter of
the Anar cooled infrequently by passing rains.  The nights were clear
and deep, filled with stars and bright with moonlight.  The world was
peaceful and still and empty.  It began to feel as if everyone, friend
and foe alike, had vanished into the firmament.

Mareth did not speak again of her origins or of abandoning her quest.
She did not mention her loathing of the magic or her fear of those who
wielded it.  She traveled mostly in silence, and when she did have
something to say it concerned the country through which they passed
and the creatures living there.
She seemed to have put the events of Culhaven behind her.  She seemed
to have settled on staying with Kinson, though she gave her decision no
voice.  She smiled often in his direction.  She sat close to him
sometimes before sleeping.  He found himself wishing more than once
that she would kiss him again.

"I am not angry anymore," she said at one point, her eyes directed
ahead, carefully avoiding his.  They were walking side by side across a
meadow filled with yellow wildflowers.  "I was angry for so long," she
continued after a moment.  "At my mother, at my father, at Bremen, at
the Druids, at everyone.  Anger gave me strength, but now it only
drains me.  Now I'm simply tired."

"I understand," he replied.  "I have been traveling for more than ten
years-for as long as I can remember-always in search of something.
Now I just want to stop and look around a little.  I want to have a
home somewhere.  Do you think that's foolish?"

She smiled at his words, but she didn't answer.

Late on their third day out of Culhaven, they reached the Ravenshorn.
They were within its shadow and climbing into the foothills when the
sun began to sink beneath the western horizon.  The sky was a wondrous
rainbow of orange, crimson, and purple, the colors spilling everywhere,
staining the earth below, reaching out to the darkening corners of the
land.  Kinson and Mareth had paused to look back at the spectacle when
a solitary Dwarf appeared on the trail before them.

"Who are you?"  he asked bluntly.

He was alone and bore only a heavy cudgel, but Kinson knew at once
there would be others close at hand.  He told the Dwarf their names.
"We are searching for Risca," he advised.
"The Druid Bremen has sent us to find him."

The Dwarf said nothing, but instead turned and beckoned for them to
follow.  They walked for several hours, the trail climbing through the
foothills to the lower slopes of the mountains.  Daylight faded, and
the moon and stars came out to light their way.  The air cooled, and
their breath puffed before them in small clouds.  Kinson searched for
signs of other Dwarves as they traveled, but he never saw more than the
one.

At last they crossed into a valley where several dozen watch fires
burned and ten times as many Dwarves huddled close about them.  The
Dwarves looked up as the Southlanders came into view, and some rose
from where they had been sitting.
Their stares were hard and suspicious, and their words to each other
were kept purposefully low.  They carried few possessions, but every
last one of them wore weapons strapped to his waist and back.

Kinson wondered suddenly if he and Mareth were in danger.  He moved
closer to her, his eyes darting left and right.  It did not feel
safe.
It felt ugly and threatening.  He wondered if these Dwarves were
renegades fled from the main army.  He wondered if the army even
existed anymore.

Then abruptly Risca was there, waiting for them as they approached,
unchanged from the time they had left him at the Hadeshorn save for the
new lacing of cuts that marked his face and hands.  And when a smile
appeared on his weathered face and his hand stretched out in greeting,
Kinson Ravenlock knew that everything was going to be all right.

CHAPTER 30

TEN DAYS FOLLOWING Jerle Shannara's midnight assault, the army of the
Warlock Lord attacked the Elves at the Valley of Rhenn.
The Elves were not caught unprepared.  All that night the level of
activity in the enemy camp had been unusually high.  Watch fires were
built up until it seemed as if the en tire grassland were ablaze.  The
siege machines that had been salvaged from the raid were hauled
forward, massive giants looming out of the night, the squarish, bulky
towers swaying and creaking, the long, bent arms of the catapults and
throwers casting their shadows like broken limbs.  Long before daybreak
the various units of the army began to assemble, and from as far away
as the head of the pass the Elves could hear the sounds of armor and
weapons being strapped in place.  The heavy tromp of booted feet
signaled the forming up of battle units.  Horses were saddled and
brought around, and the cavalry mounted and rode off to assume
positions on the army's flanks, warding the archers and foot
soldiers.
There was no mistaking what was happening, and Jerle Shannara was quick
to respond.

The king had used well the time that his raid had gained him.  It had
taken the Northlanders even longer to recover than he had hoped.
The damage his raid had inflicted on the siege machines and supply
wagons was extensive, requiring that new machines be built, old ones be
repaired, and more supplies be brought down from the north.  Some of
the scattered horses were recovered, but a large number had to be
replaced.  The Northland army swelled anew as further reinforcements
arrived, but the Elves were encouraged by the fact that they had 
damaged this superior force so easily.  It had given them renewed hope,
and the king was quick to take advantage of it.

The first thing Jerle did was to relocate the greater part of his army
from the west end of the valley to the east, from the narrow pass to
the broad mouth opening onto the flats.  His reasoning was simple.
While it was easier to defend the deeper pass, he preferred to engage
the enemy farther out and make it fight for every foot of ground as it
advanced through the valley.
The danger, of course, lay in spreading his lesser force too thinly
before a superior army.  But to offset that risk, the king employed his
engineering corps to construct a series of deadly traps in the wide gap
opening out onto the plains through which the Northlanders must pass.
He met as well with his commanders to discuss strategy, working out a
complex but comprehensive set of alternatives he believed would offset
the magnitude of the Northland strike.  The larger army would win if it
could bring its superior size and strength to bear.
The trick was to prevent this from happening.

So when dawn arrived on that tenth day and the Northland army stood
revealed, the Elves were waiting.  Four companies of foot soldiers and
archers stood arrayed across the wide mouth of the valley's east
entrance, arms at the ready.  Cavalry under Kier Joplin had already
fanned out to either side along the fringe of the Westland forests that
screened the cliffs and hills.
On the high ground, three more companies of Elven Hunters had set
themselves in place, warded by earthworks and barricades, with bows,
slings, and spears in hand.

But the army assembled before them was truly daunting.  It numbered
well over ten thousand, spread out all across the plains for as far as
the eye could see.  The huge Rock Trolls stood centermost, their great
pikes lifted in a forest of wood and iron.  Lesser Trolls and Gnomes
flanked and fronted them.
Heavy cavalry ranged behind, lances set in stirrup rests.  Twin siege
towers bracketed the army, and catapults and throwers were scattered
through its midst.  In the blaze of new sunlight and old shadows, the
Northland army looked to be large enough to crush any obstacle it
encountered.

There was an expectant silence as the sun lifted out of the horizon and
the new day began.  The two armies faced each other across the
grassland, armor and weapons glinting, pennants flying in a soft
breeze, the sky a strange mix of brightening blue and fading gray.
Clouds sailed overhead in vast, thick masses that threatened rain
before the day was through.  The acrid smell of scorched earth wafted
on the air, a residue from the watch fires doused.  Horses stamped
nervously and shifted in their traces.  Men took deep breaths and
closed off thoughts of home and family and better times.

When the Northland army began its advance toward the valley, the earth
shook with the sound.  Drums thudded in steady cadence to mark time for
the foot soldiers marching in step.  The wheels of the catapults and
siege towers rumbled.
Boots and hooves thudded so heavily that the trembling of the ground
could be felt all the way back to where the Elves stood waiting.
Dust began to rise from the parched plains, the wind stirring it in
wild clouds, and the size of the army seemed to swell even more, to
rise on the dust as if fed by it.  The silence shattered, and the light
changed.  In the roil of the dust and the thunder of the army's coming,
Death lifted its head in expectation and looked about.

Jerle Shannara sat atop his charger, a white-faced bay called Risk, and
watched in silence as the enemy advanced.  He did not like the effect
that it was having on his men.  The sheer number of the enemy was
disheartening, and the sound of its coming was immense and
heart-stopping.  The king could feel the fear it generated in his
soldiers.  His impatience with what was happening began to grate on
him.  It began to work against his own resolve.

Finally, he could abide it no longer.  Impulsively he spurred forward
to the head of his army, leaving Preia, Bremen, and his personal guard
staring after him in shock.  Charging to the fore, exposed to all, he
reined in and began to walk Risk up and down the front ranks, speaking
boldly to the Elven Hunters who stood there looking up at him in
delighted surprise.

"Steady now," he called out calmly, smiling, nodding in greeting,
meeting every pair of eyes.  "Size alone won't make the difference.

This is our ground, our home, our birthright, our nation.  We cannot
be driven from it by an invader who lacks heart.  We cannot be defeated
while we believe in ourselves.
Stay strong.  Remember what we have planned for them.  Remember what
we must do.  They will break first, I promise you.
Keep steady.  Keep your wits."

So he went, up and down the lines, pausing now and again to ask a man
he recognized some small question, demonstrating to them the confidence
he felt, reminding them of the courage he knew they possessed.  He did
not bother to glance at the juggernaut that approached.  He pointedly
ignored it.  They are nothing to us, he was saying.  They are already
beaten.

When the behemoth was two hundred yards away, the thunder of its
approach so pervasive that there was room for no other sound, he raised
his arm in salute to his Elven Hunters, wheeled Risk into their front
ranks, and took his place among them.  Dust gusted across the plains,
shrouding the marching army and the rolling machines.  Drums hammered
out the cadence.  The siege weapons lurched closer, hauled forward by
massive ropes and trains of pack animals.  Swords and pikes glittered
in the dusky light.

Then, when the advancing army was a hundred and fifty yards away, jerle
Shannara signaled for the plains to be fired.

Forward raced a long line of archers, dropping to one knee to light
their arrows.  Six-foot-long bows were lifted and tilted skyward, and
bowstrings were drawn taut and released.  The arrows flew into the
midst of the Northland army, landing in grasses that the Elves had
soaked with oil under cover of darkness the night before, when they
knew the attack was at hand.
Flames sprang to life all about, rising into the dust-clogged air,
blazing skyward amid the close-set enemy ranks.  Down the long lines
the fire raced, and the Northland march slowed and broke apart as the
screams of frightened men and animals rose into the morning air.

But the army did not retreat or try to flee.  Instead it charged, its
forward ranks breaking free of the deadly flames.
Gnome archers loosed their arrows in wild bursts, but they lacked Elven
longbows and the arrows fell short.  The soldiers with their hand
weapons came on, howling in rage, anxious to close with the enemy that
had surprised them.  Fully a thousand in number, most of them Gnomes
and lesser Trolls, ill disciplined and impulsive, they surged forward
into the trap that waited.

Jerle Shannara held his soldiers in place, the bowmen drawn back again
into the ranks of Elven Hunters.  When the enemy was close enough to
smell, he brought up his sword in signal to the haulers set in lines
amid the swordsman.  Back they pulled on the heavy, greased ropes
concealed in the grasses, and dozens of barricades buttressed with
sharpened stakes lifted to meet the rush.  The attackers were too close
to slow, pressed on by those who pushed from behind, and were driven
onto the deadly spikes.  Some tried to cut at the ropes, but the blades
slid harmlessly along the greased cords.  The cries of attack changed
to screams of pain and horror, and Northlanders died in agony as they
fell on the barricades or were trampled underfoot.

Now the Elven bowmen loosed their arrows a second time in long, steady
waves.  The Northlanders, slowed by the barricades blocking their path
of attack, were easy targets.  Unable to protect themselves, with
nowhere to hide, they were felled by the dozens.  The flames of the
grass fires closing in from behind gave them no chance to retreat.
The rest of the Northland army had split apart in an effort to skirt
the center of the in ferno and lend support to those trapped in
front.
But the positioning of the siege machines and the trains of animals
hauling them forward hampered their progress, and now Elven cavalry
rode at them from both sides, sweeping across their flanks with
javelins and short swords.  One of the towers caught fire, and in an
effort to douse the flames, the occupants frantically splashed down
buckets of water drawn from containers stored within the wooden
shell.
Catapults loosed their deadly hail of stones and jagged metal, but
their aim was obscured by the smoke and dust.

Then Jerle Shannara had the ropes to the spiked barricades released,
and the barricades dropped away.  The Elves marched forward, lancers
and swordsman set in staggered lines, their ranks tight, the shield of
the man on the right protecting the man on the left.
Straight into the ravaged Northland front they marched, a steady,
relentless advance.  Dismayed at their predicament, the Northlanders
who were trapped between the Elves and the fire threw down their
weapons and tried to flee.  But there was no escape.  They were hemmed
in on all sides now, and with no place to go they were quickly cut to
pieces.

But the grass fires began to die, and a company of the Rock Trolls that
formed the core of the Northland army's strength marched into view,
their great pikes lowered.  They held their ranks and maintained their
pace without slowing as they trampled over their own dead and dying,
making no distinction between friend and enemy.  Anything caught in
their path was killed.  Jerle Shannara saw them coming and gave the
order to retreat.  He pulled back his front lines to their original
position and set them in place again.  On his right, Cormorant Etrurian
commanded.  On his left, Rustin Apt. Arn Banda set the bow men amid
both companies, staggering their lines, and had them loose their arrows
at the advancing Trolls.  But the Trolls were too well armored for the
arrows to do much damage, and the king signaled the archers to fall
back.

Out of the fire and smoke the Rock Trolls marched, the finest fighters
in the Four Lands, massive of shoulder and thigh, heavily muscled,
armored and steady.  Jerle Shannara signaled anew, and up came a new
set of spikes to block their path.  But the Rock Trolls were more
disciplined and less easily confused than the Gnomes and lesser Trolls,
and they set themselves in place to push back the spiked barricades.
Behind them swarmed the balance of the Northland army, appearing out of
the haze in seemingly endless numbers, hauling with them their siege
towers and catapults.  Cavalry rode their flanks, engaging Kier
Joplin's command, keeping it at bay.

jerle Shannara withdrew his army another hundred yards, well into the
broad eastern mouth of the Rhenn.  Line by line, the Elves fell back, a
disciplined, orderly retreat, but a retreat nevertheless.  Some among
the Northland army cheered, believing the Elves had panicked.
Surely the Elves would break and flee, they thought.  None among them
noticed the lines of small flags through which the elves carefully
withdrew and which they surreptitiously removed in their passing.
Advancing implacably, relentlessly into the valley, the Rock Trolls
were oblivious of the ordered form of the Elven retreat.  Behind them
smoke and fire gusted and died as the wind faded with the approach of
midmorning.  Kier Joplin's command rode back into the valley ahead of
the Northland assault, anxious to avoid being cut off.  They galloped
past the foot soldiers and wheeled about on their flanks, forming up
anew.  The entire Westland army was in place now, stretched across the
mouth of the valley, waiting.  There was no sign of panic and no hint
of uncertainty.  They had set a second trap, and the unsuspecting
enemy was marching directly into it.

So it was that when the front ranks of the Rock Trolls reached the
entrance to the valley, the ground beneath their feet began to give
way.  The heavily armored Trolls tumbled helplessly into pits the Elves
had dug and concealed several days earlier and themselves carefully
avoided during their re treat.  The ranks parted and moved ahead,
avoiding the exposed drops, but there were pits staggered over a span
of fifty yards at irregular intervals, and the ground continued to
collapse no matter which way the Trolls turned.  Confusion slowed their
advance, and the attack began to falter.

Immediately, the Elves counterattacked.  The king signaled the men
concealed on the cliffs to either side, the casks of the flammable oil
were rolled down hidden ramps onto the grass lands to smash apart on
exposed rocks and spill into the pits.

Once more fire arrows arced skyward and fell into the spreading oil,
and the entire eastern end of the valley was abruptly en gulfed in
flames.  The Rock Trolls in the pits were burned alive.
The balance of the assault came on, but the solidarity of the Troll
ranks was shattered.  Worse, the Trolls were being overrun by the
unwitting Northlanders who had followed in their wake.
Confusion began to overtake the army.  The fire chased them, the arrows
from the Elven longbows fell among them, and now the Elven army was
marching into their midst, bearing massive, spiked rams before them.
The rams tore into their already decimated ranks and scattered the
Trolls further.  On came the Elven Hunters, who fell upon the rest with
their swords.  Those trapped between the Elves and the fire stood their
ground and fought bravely, but died anyway.

In desperation the remaining Northlanders charged the cliffs to either
side of the pass, trying to gain a foothold there.
But the Elves were waiting once more.  Boulders tumbled from the
heights and crushed the climbers.  Arrows decimated their ranks.  From
their superior defensive positions, the Elves repelled the assault
almost effortlessly.  Below, in the inferno of the pass, the front
quarter of the Northland army milled about helplessly.  The attack
stalled and then fell apart.  Choking on dust and smoke, burned by the
grass fires, and bloodied by the weapons of the Elves, the army of the
Warlock Lord began to withdraw once more onto the Streleheim.

Impulsively jerle Shannara unsheathed the sword entrusted to him by
Bremen, the sword whose magic he could not command or even yet believe
in, and he thrust it aloft.  All about him the Elves lifted their own
weapons in response and cheered.

Almost instantly the king recognized the irony of his gesture.
Quickly he lowered the sword once more, a fool's stick in his hands, a
simpleton's charm.  As he wheeled Risk about angrily, his euphoria
drained from him and was replaced by shame.

"IT IS THE SWORD OF SHANNARA Now, Elven King," Bremen had told him when
he had revealed to the old man after the mid night raid how the
talisman Is magic had failed him.  "it is no longer a sword of the
Druids' or of mine."

The words recalled themselves now as he rode back and forth across his
lines, resetting them in preparation for the next attack, the one he
knew would probably come just before sun set.  The Sword was back in
its sheath, strapped to his waist, an uncertain, enigmatic presence.
For while Bremen had been quick enough to name the Sword, he had been
slow to provide reassurance that its magic could be mastered, and even
now, even with all he knew, Jerle Shannara still did not feel as if it
was truly his.


"It is possible for you to command the magic, Elven King," the old man
had whispered to him that night.  "But the strength to do so is born
out of belief, and the belief necessarily must come from within you."

They had huddled together in the dark those ten days earlier, dawn
still an hour or more away, their faces smeared with soot and dirt and
streaked with sweat.  Jerle Shannara had come close to dying that
night.  The Warlock Lord's nether world monster had almost killed him,
and even though Bremen had arrived in time to save him, the memory of
how near death had come was yet vivid and raw.  Preia was somewhere
close, but Jerle had chosen to talk with the Druid alone, to confess
his failure in private to exorcise the demons that raged within.  He
could not live with what had befallen him if he did not think he could
prevent it from happening again.  Too much depended on the Sword's
use.
What had he done wrong in calling on the power of the talisman that
night?  How could he make certain it did not happen again?

Alone in the darkness, huddled so that the pounding of their hearts and
the heated rush of their breathing was all they could hear, they had
confronted the question.

"This sword is a talisman meant for a single purpose, Jerle
Shannara!"
the old man had snapped almost angrily, his voice rough and
impatient.
"it has a single use and no other!  You can not call on the magic to
defend you against all creatures that threaten!  The blade may save
your life, but the magic will not!"

The king stiffened at the rebuke.  "But you said .  . ."

"Do not tell me what I said!"  Bremen's words were sharp and stinging
as they cut apart his objection and silenced him.  "You were not
listening to what I said, Elven King!  You heard what you wanted to
hear and no more!  Do not deny it!  I saw! I watched!  This time, pay
me better heed!  Are you doing so?"

Jerle Shannara managed a furious, tight-lipped nod, his tongue held in
check only by the knowledge that if he failed to do as he was bidden,
he was lost.

"Against the Warlock Lord, the magic will respond when you call on
it!
But only against the Warlock Lord, and only if you believe strongly
enough!"  The gray head shook reprovingly.
"Truth comes from belief-remember that.  Truth comes with recognition
that it is universal and all-encompassing and plays no favorites.  If
you cannot accept it into your own life, you cannot force it into the
lives of others.  You must embrace it first, before you can employ
it!
You must make it your armor!"

"But it should have served so against that creature!"  the king
insisted, unwilling to admit that his judgment had been wrong.
"Why did it not respond?"

"Because there is no deception about such a monster!"  the Druid
replied, his jaw clenched.  "It does not do battle with lies and half
truths.  It does not armor itself in falsehoods.  It does not deceive
itself into thinking it is something it is not!  That that, Elven King,
is the sole province of the Warlock Lord!  And that is why the magic of
the Sword of Shannara can be used only against him!"

So they had debated, the argument raging back and forth, on until dawn,
when they had rested at last.  Afterward, the king had been left to
think on what he had been told, to try to reconcile the words with his
expectations.  Gradually he had come to accept that what Bremen
believed must be true.  The magic of the Sword was limited to a single
use, and though he might wish it otherwise, there was no help for it.
The magic of the Sword was meant for Brona alone and no other.  He must
em brace this knowledge, and somehow he must find a way to make the
magic, however foreign and confusing, his own.

He had gone to Preia finally, having known all along that he would do
so eventually, just as he did with all things that troubled him.
His counselors were there to advise him at every turn, and
some-especially Vree Erreden-were worth listening to.
But no one knew him as Preia did, and in truth none among them was apt
to be as honest.  So he had made himself confide the truth in her,
though it was difficult to admit that he had failed and was fearful he
might fail again.

It was later that same day, his conversation with Bremen still fresh in
his mind, his memories of the previous night still vivid.
The Valley of Rhenn was hushed beneath a clouded sky, and the Elves
were watchful, wary of a Northland response to the previous night's
attack.  The afternoon was gray and slow, the summer heat settled deep
within the parched earth of the Streleheim, the air thick with dampness
from an approaching rain.

"You will find a way to master this magic," she said at once when he
had finished speaking.  Her voice was firm and insistent, and her gaze
was steady.  "I believe that, Jerle.  I know you.
You have never given up on a challenge, and you will not give up on
this one."

"Sometimes," he replied quietly, "I think it would be better if Tay
were here in my place.  He might make a better king.
Certainly, he would be better suited to wield this sword and its
magic."

But she shook her head at once.  "Do not ever say that again.
Not ever."  Her clear, ginger eyes were bright and sharp.  "You were
meant to live and be King of the Elves.  Fate decreed that long ago.
Tay was a good friend and meant much to both of us, but he was not
destined for this.  Listen to me, Jerle.  The Sword's magic will work
for you.  Truth is no stranger.  We have begun our lives as husband and
wife by revealing truths that we would not have admitted a month
before.  We have opened our selves to each other.  It was difficult and
painful, but now you know it can be done.  You know this.
You do," 

"Yes," he admitted softly.  "But the magic still seems He
faltered.

"Unfamiliar," she finished for him.  "But it can be made your own.
You have accepted that magic is a part of your Elven history.  Tay's
magic was real.  You have discovered for yourself that it could perform
miracles.  You watched him give his life in its service.  All things
are possible with magic.  And truth is one of them, Jerle.  It is a
weapon of great power.  It can strengthen and it can destroy.  Bremen
is no fool.  If he says that truth is the weapon you require, then it
must be so."

But still it nagged at him, whispered of his doubts, and caused him to
waver.  Truth seemed so small a weapon.  What truth could be powerful
enough to destroy a being that could summon monsters from the
netherworld?  What truth was sufficient to counter magic powerful
enough to keep a creature alive for a thousand years?  It seemed
ludicrous to think that truth alone was sufficient for anything.  Fire
was needed.  Iron, sharp edged and poison-tipped.  Strength that could
split rocks asunder.  Nothing less would do, he kept thinking-even as
he sought to embrace the magic Bremen offered.  Nothing less.

Now, riding the battlefield with the Sword of Shannara strapped to his
side, his Elven Hunters buoyed by the euphoria of their victory, he
wondered anew at the enormity of the responsibility he had been given
to fulfill.  Sooner or later he would have to face the Warlock Lord.
But that would not happen until he forced a confrontation, and that in
turn would not happen until the Northland army itself was threatened.
How could he hope to bring such a thing about?  For while the Elves had
held against one assault, there was nothing to say that they would be
able to hold against another, and another, and another after that-the
Northland army coming on relentlessly.  And if they did somehow manage
to hold, how could he turn the tide of battle so that the Elves could
take the offensive?  There were so many of the enemy, he kept
thinking.
So many lives to expend and no thought being given to the waste of
it.
It was not so for him-and not so for the Elves who fought for him.
This was a war of attrition, and that was exactly the kind of war he
could not hope to win.

Yet somehow he must.  For that was all that was left to him.
That was the only choice he had been given.

He must, or the Elves would be destroyed.

THE NORTHLAND ARMY came again an hour before sunset, appearing out of
the scorched, dusty, smoke-shrouded grasslands like disembodied
wraiths.  Foot soldiers marched in behind massive shields constructed
of wood so green it would not burn.
Cavalry rode their flanks to ward against attacks from the cliffs north
and south.  They advanced slowly and steadily out of the haze, the
grass fires having burned themselves out earlier, though the air was
still acrid and raw.  They skirted the charred pits and their crumpled
dead, and once inside the valley they began to probe for new traps.
Five thousand strong, they were packed close behind their shields, and
their weapons bristled at every turn.  The drums beat in steady cadence
and they chanted as they marched, boots thudding, iron blades and
wooden hafts rapping in time.  They brought up their siege towers and
catapults and set them in place at the valley entrance.  A vast, dark
mass, they rose up against the coming night until it seemed as if there
were enough of them to overrun the entire world.

Jerle Shannara had drawn his army deeper into the valley, bringing them
back to a midway point before setting their lines.
He had chosen a position where the valley began to rise toward the
Rhenn's narrow western pass, giving his Hunters the high ground on
which to position themselves.  His tactics necessarily changed now,
for the wind had shifted within the valley, blowing back against the
defenders, and fire would only aid the enemy here.  Nor had he ordered
pits dug this deep within the valley; there would not be enough room to
maneuver his own army if he did, and besides, the enemy would be
looking for them now.

Instead, he had ordered dozens of spiked barricades built, ties
sharpened at both ends and lashed crosswise to a central axle so that
they resembled cylindrical pinwheels.  Each was twenty feet in length
and light enough to haul forward and set in place so that the
downward-pointing spikes were jammed into the earth.  These he had
positioned at staggered intervals in a narrow ribbon all across the
width of the Rhenn just below his forward lines.

When the army of the Warlock Lord spilled into the valley and began its
determined march forward, the first resistance it encountered was the
maze of spiked barricades.  As the front ranks of the enemy reached
them, Jerle Shannara ordered his bowmen, set in lines of three behind
cover along the slopes, to loose their arrows.  The Northlanders,
slowed by the barricades and unable to push them aside, could not
escape.  Caught in a withering crossfire, they were killed by the
dozens as they sought to crawl over, under, or past the spikes.
The cavalry tried to mount a sustained charge against the Elves
positioned on the heights, but the slopes were too steep for horses and
the North land riders were swept down again.

Screams rose from the dying, and the attack stalled.  The Northlanders
hid behind their shields, but they could not advance their cover
beyond the Elven barricades.  Axes were brought up to hew through the
barricades, but those who rushed out to chop apart the spiked pinwheels
lasted only moments.  Worse, to break past even one of the barricades
required cutting it through in a dozen places.  The light failed, dusk
de scended, and the world turned shadowy and uncertain.  The
Northlanders brought fire to the barricades and set some ablaze, but

the Elves had purposely made them of green wood.  The grasses caught
fire, but the Elves had dug trenches to separate themselves from the
barricades, and the fires burned themselves out east of the defensive
lines.
The Elves waited until darkness began to mask everything, then
Counterattacked from the slopes in a series of controlled strikes.
Because the Elves had the Northlanders bottled up on the valley floor,
their target was certain even in the deepening gloom.  One company
after another came down off the heights, forcing the Northlanders to
turn first one way and then another to defend themselves.  Fierce
hand-to-hand fighting ensued, and the valley became a charnel house.

Still the enemy would not fall back.  Northlanders died by the
hundreds, but there were always more waiting to be brought up, a huge,
massive force crushing relentlessly inward.
Even as the Elves fought to hold their positions against those already
in place, reinforcements were advancing.  Slowly, inexorably, the
enemy pushed forward.  The barricades held the Northland army in check
at the valley's center, but the slopes were being overrun.  The Elves
under Cormorant Etrurian who held the cliffs were slowly driven from
their defensive positions and compelled to fall back.  Foot by foot,
yard by yard, the Northlanders advanced, seizing the heights and
breaking free of the vise that Jerle Shannara had clamped about them.


Word of what was happening reached the king.  The skies were clouded
and rain was beginning to fall, turning the ground slick and
treacherous.  The sounds of battle echoed off the slopes of the valley,
creating a maelstrom of confusion.  The darkness made it virtually
impossible to see anything beyond a few yards.  Jerle Shannara took
only a moment to consider.
Quickly he sent runners to withdraw Etrurian's men to the barricades
established as a redoubt high on the slopes parallel to his own
lines.
There they were to stand and hold.  He sent runners to pull back Arn
Banda and the longbows.  Then he marshaled two companies of Elven
Hunters under Rustin Apt and formed them up to attack.  When Etrurian's
fighters and the bowmen were safely withdrawn, he ordered pikes brought
to the fore, and he marched his command directly into the heart of the
enemy advance.  He engaged the Northlanders just as they were breaking
through on the right flank and pinned their front ranks against the
barricades.  He ordered torches lit to identify their position to the
reentrenched bowmen, then had them rake the enemy from the slopes.

Caught in an enfilading fire, the Northlanders rallied under a massive
clutch of Rock Trolls and counterattacked.  They shoved and twisted
their way past the barricades and hammered into the Elven Hunters.
Huge, winged shapes appeared out of the smoky haze as Skull Bearers
took to the skies to lend their support.  The line of defense
buckled.
Grizzled Rustin Apt went down and was carried from the field.
Trewithen and the Home Guard hurried forward to reinforce the sagging
defense, but the enemy were too many and the entire Elven front began
to collapse.

In desperation, Jerle Shannara put his spurs to Risk and charged into
the battle himself.  Surrounded by Home Guard, he cut his way into the
enemy front, rallying his Elven Hunters to him.  Northlanders came at
him from all sides.  They tried to drag him from his horse, to knock
him from the saddle, to do anything to slow him.  Behind him, the Elven
army, battered and worn, surged to its collective feet and followed in
his wake.  Battle cries rose out of the shrieks and moans of the
injured and dying, and the Elves thrust into the Northlanders yet
again.
Jerle fought as if he might drive the enemy all the way back to the
Northland by himself, his gleaming sword catching light from the
torches, ringing out as it hammered down against en emy weapons and
armor.  Massive Trolls appeared in his path, great faceless monsters
with battle-axes.  But the king cut his way through them as if they
were made of paper, refusing to be stopped, seemingly invincible.  He
outdistanced even his personal guard, and his soldiers threw
themselves at the enemy in an effort to reach him.


Then lightning struck an outcropping on the slope closest to where the
battle was being fought, and fiery clots of earth and shards of broken
rock exploded skyward and showered across the valley floor.  Men
covered their heads and cowered at the fury of the explosion, and for
just an instant time froze.  As the Northlanders hesitated, turned
momentarily to statues, Jerle Shannara stood tall in his stirrups and
thrust the Sword of Shannara skyward in defiance of everything.  Battle
cries rose from the throats of his men, and they charged into the enemy
with such ferocity that they overran them completely.  Those farthest
away and yet able to escape retreated behind the shattered barricades,
the fight gone out of them.  For a moment they held their ground in the
forest of jagged wooden bones and scorched earth.  Then sullenly,
wearily they withdrew to the Rhenn's east pass.

Massed against the barricades, streaked by rain, dirt, sweat, and
blood, Jerle Shannara and the Elves watched them go.

The victory for this day, at least, belonged to them.

CHAPTER 31

DAWN BROKE THROUGH skies turned gloomy and gray from the night's heavy
rain, and the scorched and rutted floor of the Valley of Rhenn was
blackened and steaming in the half-light.  Drawn up in their ranks,
weapons held ready, eyes peering expectantly through the gloom, the
Elves stood waiting for the attack they knew would come.  But no sound
came from the heavy mist that cloaked the camp of the army of the
Warlock Lord within the valley's eastern pass, and nothing moved in
the empty, blasted landscape before them.  The light brightened with
the sun's rise, but the mist refused to thin and still there was no
sign of an attack.
That the massive army had withdrawn was unthinkable.  All that night it
had scratched and worried at itself like a stricken animal, the sounds
of pain and anguish rising up out of the mist and rain, transcending
the fading thunder of the receding storm.  All that night the army had
tended to its needs and re grouped its forces.  It held the eastern
pass entire, the floor and the heights alike.  It brought forward all
of its siege machines, supplies, and equipment, and settled them within
the lines of its encampment across the broad mouth of the pass.  Its
progress might be slow and lumbering, but it remained an inexorable,
unstoppable juggernaut.

"They're out there," muttered one-eyed Arn Banda, standing just to
Bremen's left, his face twisted in a worrisome scowl.

Jerle Shannara nodded, his tall form fixed and unmoving.
"But what are they up to?"


Indeed.  Bremen pulled his dark robes closer to his lean body to ward
off the dawn chill.  They could not see the far end of the valley,
their eyes unable to penetrate the gloom, but they could feel the
enemy's presence even so.  The night had been filled with sound and
fury as the Northlanders prepared anew for battle, and it was only in
the last hour that they had gone ominously still.  The attack this day
would take a new form, the old man suspected.  The Warlock Lord had
been repulsed the previous day with heavy losses and would not be
inclined to re peat the experience.  Even his power had limits, and
sooner or later his hold on those who fought for him would weaken if no
gains were made.  The Elves must be driven back or defeated soon or the
Northlanders would begin to question the Master's invincibility.  Once
that house of cards began to topple, there would be no stopping it.

There was movement to his right, small and furtive.  It was the boy,
Allanon.  He glanced over surreptitiously.  The boy was staring
straight ahead, his lean face taut, his eyes fixed on nothing.  He was
seeing something, though-that much was clear from his expression.  He
was looking through the mist and gloom to something beyond, those
strange eyes penetrating to what was hidden from the rest of them.

The old man followed the direction of the boy's gaze.  Mist swirled, a
shifting cloak across the whole of the valley's eastern end.
"What is it?"  he asked softly.

But the boy only shook his head.  He could sense it, but not yet
identify it.  His eyes remained fixed on the haze, his concen tration
complete.  He was good at concentrating, Bremen had learned.  In fact,
he was better than good.  His intensity was frightening.  It was not
something he had learned while growing or been imbued with as a result
of the shock he had suffered in the destruction of Varfleet.  It was
something he had been born with-like the strange eyes and the
razor-sharp mind.  The boy was as hard and fixed of purpose as stone,
but he possessed an intelligence and a thirst for knowledge that were
boundless.  Just a week earlier, following the night raid on the
Northland camp, he had come to Bremen and asked the old man to teach
him to use the Druid magic.  Just like that.  Teach me how to use it,
he had demanded-as if anyone could learn, as if the skill could be
taught easily.

"It takes years to master even the smallest part," Bremen had replied,
too stunned by the request to refuse it outright.

"Let me try," the boy had insisted.

"But why would you even want to?"  The Druid was genuinely
perplexed.

"is it revenge you seek?  Do you think the magic will gain you that?
Why not spend your time learning to use conventional weapons?  Or
learning to ride?  Or studying warfare?"

"No," the boy had replied at once, quick and firm.  "I don't want any
of that.  I don't care about revenge.  What I want is to be like
you."

And there it was, the whole of it laid bare in a single sentence.
The boy wanted to be a Druid.  He was drawn to Bremen and Bremen to him
because they were more kindred than the old man had suspected.
Galaphile's fourth vision was another glimpse of the future, a warning
that there were ties that bound the boy to the Druid, a promise of
their common destiny.  Bremen knew that now.  The boy had been sent to
him by a fate he did not yet understand.  Here, perhaps, was the
successor he had looked so long to find.  It was strange that he should
find him in this way, but not entirely unexpected.  There were no laws
for the choosing of Druids, and Bremen knew better than to try to start
making them now.

So he had given Allanon a few small tricks to master-little things that
required mostly concentration and practice.  He had thought it would
keep the boy occupied for a week or so.  But Allanon had mastered all
of them in a single day and come back for more.  So for each of the ten
days leading up to now, Bremen had given him some new bit of Druid
lore with which to work, letting him decide for himself which way to
take his learning, which use to employ.  Caught up in the preparations
for the Northland attack, he had barely had time to consider what the
boy had accomplished.  Yet watching him now, studying him in the faint
dawn light as he gazed out across the valley, the old man was struck
anew by the obvious depth and immutability of the boy's
determination.

"There!"  cried Allanon suddenly, his eyes widening in sur prise.
"They are above us!"

Bremen was so shocked that for a moment he was rendered speechless.  A
few heads lifted in response to the boy's words, but no one moved.
Then Bremen swept his arm skyward, show ering the gloom with Druid
light in a wide, rainbow arc, and the dark shapes that circled overhead
were suddenly revealed.
Skull Bearers wheeled sharply away as they were exposed, their wings
spread wide as they disappeared back into the haze.

Jerle Shannara was beside the Druid in a moment.  "What are they
doing?"  he demanded.

Bremen's eyes remained fixed on the empty skies, watching the Druid
light as it faded away.  The gloom returned, fixed and pervasive.
There was something wrong with the light, he realized suddenly.  The
look of it was all wrong.

"They are scouting," he whispered.  Then, turning quickly to Allanon,
he said, "Look out across the valley again.  Carefully this time.
Don't try to see anything in particular.  Look into the haze and the
gray.  Watch the shifting of the mists."

The boy did, his face screwed up with the effort.  He stared at
nothing, his gaze hard and intense.  He quit breathing and went
still.
Then his mouth dropped open, and he gasped in shock.

"Good boy."  Bremen put his arm about the youngster's shoulders.
"I see them now, too.  But your eyes are the sharper."
He turned to face the king.  "We are under attack by the dark things
that serve the Warlock Lord, the creatures he has summoned from the
netherworld.  He has chosen to use them this day rather than his
army.
They come at us from across the valley floor.  The Skull Bearers spy
out the way for them.  The Warlock Lord uses his magic to conceal
their approach, changing the light, thickening the mists.  We do not
have much time.  De ploy your commanders and have your men stand
firm.
I will do what I can to counter this."

Jerle Shannara gave the order and his Elven commanders scattered to
their units, Cormorant Etrurian to the left flank and an injured, but
still mobile, Rustin Apt to the right.  Kier Joplin was already in
place, the cavalry drawn up behind the foot soldiers in relief.  Arn
Banda raced away to the south slope to alert the archers positioned
there.  Prekkian and the Black Watch and Trewithen and most of the Home
Guard were being held in reserve.

"Come with me," Bremen said to the king.

They set off for the far right of the front lines, the king, the Druid,
Allanon, and Preia Starle.  They walked quickly through the startled
Elven Hunters to the foremost ranks of the army, and there the Druid
wheeled back again.

"Have those closest raise their weapons and hold them steady," the
Druid ordered.  "Tell them not to be afraid."

The king did so, not bothering to ask why, trusting to the Druid's
judgment.  He gave the order, and spears, swords, and pikes lifted
overhead in response.  Bremen narrowed his gaze, clasped his hands
before him, and summoned the Druid fire.
When it was gathered in a bright blue ball in the cup of his hands, he
sent bits and pieces of it spinning away to bounce from weapon to
weapon, from iron tip to iron tip, until all had been touched.  The
bewildered soldiers flinched at the fire's coming, but the king ordered
them to stand firm and they did so.  When all the weapons of one unit
were thus treated, they moved on to the next and repeated the process,
passing down the ranks of uneasy soldiers, the Druid imbuing the iron
of their weapons with his magic while the king reassured them of the
need, warning them at the same time to be ready, advising them that an
attack was at hand.

When it came, the Druid magic was in place and the core of the Elven
army warded.  Dark shapes hurtled out of the gloom, launching
themselves at the Elven ranks, howling and screaming like maddened
animals, things of jagged tooth and sharpened claw, of bristling dark
hair and rough scales.  They were creatures of other worlds, of
darkness and madness, and no law but that of survival had meaning for
them.  They fought with ferocity and raw power.  Some came on two legs,
some on four, and all seemed born of foul nightmares and twisted
images.

The Elves were thrown back, giving ground mostly out of fear, terrified
by these beasts that sought to rend them limb from limb.
Some of the Elves died at once, the fear clogged so deeply in their
throats and hearts that they could not move to defend themselves.  Some
died fighting, ridden down before they could strike a telling blow.
But others rallied and were astonished to find that their
magic-enhanced weapons would cut through the bodies and limbs of these
monstrous attackers, drawing blood and cries of pain.  The army reeled
in shock from the initial strike, then braced itself to make a stand.

But the monsters broke through on the right flank, following in the
wake of a thing so huge that it towered over even the tallest of its
fellows.  It was armored in leathery skin and pieces of metal fastened
about its vital parts, and its massive claws tore apart the men who
stood in its path.  The grizzled Rustin Apt led a counterattack to
drive it back, but he was brushed aside.

Bremen, seeing the danger, rushed to intercept the beast.

In the Druid's absence, Jerle Shannara held the center, watching the
crush of monsters push inward.  Calling encouragement to his men,
casting aside his promise to stay back, he drew forth his sword and
moved through the ranks to join the battle, Preia at his side, his
guard warding them both.  At the forefront of the Elven center, huge
wolves crouched before the iron tips of the Elven pikes and swords
confronting them, feinting and withdrawing, waiting for an opening.  As
Jerle Shannara arrived, a dark shadow swooped down out of the haze and
shattered the front rank of Elven Hunters.  A Skull Bearer lifted away,
claws red with blood.  Instantly the wolves launched themselves into
the line, biting and tearing.  But the weapons of the defenders slashed
and cut at the attackers, and the Druid magic penetrated their
toughened hide.  The foremost died in a flurry of blows, and the
remainder withdrew, growling and snapping defiantly.

On the right flank, Bremen reached the crush of monsters that had
broken through.  On seeing the old man, they came at him in a crush.
These were two-legged creatures with massive chests and heavily muscled
limbs capable of tearing a man in two, heads set deep between neckless
shoulders wrapped in folds of skin so tight that only their feral eyes
showed.  They rushed the Druid with howls of glee, but Bremen sent the
Druid fire into them and threw them back.  All about, Elven Hunters
rallied to the old man's defense, falling on the flanks of the 
attackers.  The monsters whirled and struck back, but the Elven blades
and the Druid fire tore into them.

Then the huge creature that had first breached the Elven lines rose
before Bremen in challenge, eyes gleaming, leathery body slick with
blood.  "Old man!"  the creature hissed, and fell on him.

Druid fire exploded from Bremen's hands, but the creature was close
enough that it fought past the killing flame and seized the old man's
wrists.  Bremen sheathed his forearms in the fire in an effort to break
free, his own strength no match for the other's, but the creature hung
on grimly.  The clawed hands tightened and the great arms began to
force the Druid back.
Slowly, Bremen gave ground.  All about, the monsters that had broken
through surged forward with new confidence.  The end was near.

Then Allanon appeared, sprinting out of the gloom, leaping upon the
creature's unprotected back, and fastening his hands over the yellow
eyes.  Howling in fury, he found some reservoir of strength within
himself and coupled it with some small part of the magic he had
mastered.  Uncontrolled, unmanageable, as wild as a storm wind, fire
exploded out of his hands in every direction.  It erupted with such
force that it threw the boy backward to the ground, where he lay
stunned.  But it also exploded into the attacker's face, tearing into
it and leaving it ruined.

The monster released Bremen instantly, flung up its hands in rage and
pain, and reeled away.  Bremen scrambled to his feet, ignoring the
weakness that flooded through him, ignoring his injuries, and sent the
Druid fire into the creature once more.
This time the fire traveled down the monster's throat to its heart and
burned it to ash.


Jerle Shannara, in the meantime, had moved to the army's left flank.
Cormorant Etrurian was down, sprawled on the earth, surrounded by his
men as they fought to protect him.  The king charged into their midst
and led a quick, decisive counterattack against the humped creatures
that bounded across the Elven front wielding two-edged axes and
wickedly serrated knives.
Banda had turned his archers' fire directly down the slope, and the
longbows raked the mists and the creatures hiding in them.
The Elves recovered Etrurian and carried him away, and Kier Joplin
spurred his horsemen forward to help fill the gap.  Leaving Joplin in
command, the king returned swiftly to the center of his lines, where
the fighting had grown fierce once more.
Twice he was struck blows that staggered him, but he shrugged them off,
scorning both shock and pain, and fought on.  Preia was beside him,
quick and agile as she slashed and parried with her short sword,
protecting his left.  Home Guard fought beside them, some dying where
they stood as they kept the king and queen safe.  The netherworld
creatures had penetrated the Elven ranks at every turn, and the Elves
were fighting attacks that seemed to come from every direction.

Finally Bremen rallied the left flank of defenders sufficiently that
the attackers who had broken through were repelled.
Beaten decisively, the survivors turned and ran, their misshapen forms
fading back into the mists as if they had never been.  The army surged
forward against those who battled still at the center, and they, too,
gave way.  Slowly, steadily, the Elves regained the offensive.  The
army surged forward, and the netherworld beasts fell back and
disappeared.

In the gray, hazy emptiness that remained, the army of the West stared
after them in exhausted silence.

THE NORTHLANDERS ATTACKED AGAIN late that afternoon, sending in their
regular army once more.  By now the mists had burned away, the skies
had begun to clear, and the light was strong and pure.  The Elves
watched the enemy come down the ruined length of the Rhenn from their
new defensive position, one still deeper back in the valley, close to
its western pass, warded by both high ground and recently constructed
stone walls that bristled with sharpened spikes.  They were a ragged
and bloodied command, close to exhaustion but unafraid.  They had
survived too much to be frightened anymore.  They held their positions
calmly, packed close together, for the valley narrowed sharply where
they waited.  The slopes were so steep at this point that only a small
contingent of bowmen and Elven Hunters were required to defend the high
ground against an as sault.  The larger part of the army was arrayed on
the valley floor, their compact lines ranging from slope to slope.
Cormorant Etrurian had returned, his shoulder and head bandaged, his
lean face grim.  Together with an even more debilitated Rustin Apt, he
commanded the divisions that would confront the heart of the Northland
attack.  Arn Banda was on the north slope with the bulk of his
bowmen.
Kier Joplin and the cavalry had been withdrawn to the head of the pass,
because there was no longer any room for them to maneuver.  The Home
Guard and the Black Watch were still being held in reserve.

Just behind the Elven lines, on a promontory that allowed them to
overlook the battle, stood Bremen and the boy Allanon.


The king and Preia Starle were astride Risk and Ashes at the center of
the Elven defense, Home Guard surrounded them.

Across the plains and down the corridor of the valley, the Northland
drums boomed and the thud of hooves and booted feet echoed.
Masses of foot soldiers marched to the attack, their numbers so great
that they blanketed the entire valley floor with their approach.
Behind them came the war machines siege towers and catapults, hauled
forward by teams of horses and sweating men.  Cavalry formed a rear
guard, lines of horse men bearing lances and pikes, pennants flying.
Massive Rock Trolls bore the Warlock Lord and his minions in carriages
and litters draped in black silk and decorated with whitened bones.

It is the end of us, Bremen realized suddenly, the thought coming to
him unbidden as he watched the enemy advance.
They are too many, we are too weary, the battle has raged too hotly and
for too long.  It is the end.

He was chilled at the certainty of his premonition, but there was no
denying its force.  He could feel it pressing down on him, an
inexorable certainty, a terrifying truth.  He watched the masses of
Northlanders roll on, dragging their war machines, filling the scarred,
blackened bowl of the Rhenn with their bodies, and they became in his
mind's eye a tidal wave that would roll over the Elves and leave them
drowned.  Two days of battle only had they fought, but already the
outcome was inevitable.
If the Dwarves had joined them, it might have been different.
If any of the Southland cities had mounted an army, it might have
changed things.  But the Elves stood alone, and there was no one to
help them.  They were reduced by a third already, and even though the
damage inflicted on the enemy was ten times worse, it did not matter.
The enemy had the lives to give up! they had the numbers to prevail.

The old man blinked wearily and rubbed at his chin.  That it should end
like this was almost more than he could bear.  Jerle Shannara would not
be given a chance to test his sword against the Warlock Lord.  He would
not even have a chance to confront him.  He would die here, in this
valley, with the rest of his men.  Bremen knew the king well he knew
he would give up his own life before he would save himself.  And if
jerle Shannara died, there was no hope for any of them.

Beside him, the boy Allanon shifted uneasily.  He could sense the
impending disaster as well, the old man thought.  The boy had courage;
he had shown that much this morning when he had saved Bremen's life.
He had used the magic without concern for his own safety, with no
thought but one-to save the old man.  Bremen shook his ragged gray
head.  The boy had been left battered and stunned, but he was no less
willing now than he had been before.  He would do whatever he could in
this battle, just like the king.  Bremen could tell-the boy was already
choosing a place to make his stand.

The Northland army was within two hundred yards when it rumbled to a
halt.  With a flurry of activity, the sappers and haulers began to
bring up the catapults and siege towers.  Bremen's throat tightened.
The Warlock Lord would not launch a direct attack.  Why waste lives
when it was not necessary?  In stead, he would use the catapults and
the bowmen hidden within the towers to rake the Westland defenses with
deadly missiles, to thin their numbers further, to wear them down until
they were too few to provide any resistance.

The war machines spread out across the width of the valley floor, lined
up axle to axle, the slings of the catapults loaded with rocks and
chunks of iron, the bays of the towers filled with bowmen at every
slit.  Within the Elven ranks, no one moved.
There was nowhere to go, no place to hide, no better defense to which
to withdraw.  For if the valley was lost, the Westland was lost as
well.  The drums throbbed on, beating out their ceaseless cadence,
matching the thunder of the wheels on the war machines, reverberating
in the old man's chest.  He glanced at the darkening sky, but sunset
was still an hour away and darkness would come too late to help.

"We have to stop this," he whispered, not meaning to speak, the words
just slipping out.

Allanon looked up at him wordlessly and waited.  Those strange eyes
fixed on him and would not move away.  Bremen held his gaze.
"How?"  asked the boy softly.

And suddenly Bremen knew.  He knew it from the eyes, from the words the
boy spoke, and from the whisper of inspiration that rose suddenly
within.  It came to him in a moment of terrifying insight, born of his
own despair and fading hope.

"There is a way," he said quickly, anxiously.  The creases in his aging
face deepened.  "But I need your help.  I lack the strength alone."  He
paused.  "It will be dangerous for you."

The boy nodded.  "I am not afraid."

"You may die.  We may both die."

"Tell me what to do."

Bremen turned toward the line of siege machines and placed the boy in
front of him.  "Listen carefully, then.  You must give yourself over to
me, Allanon.  Do not fight against anything you feel.  You will become
a conduit for me, for my magic, the magic I possess but lack sufficient
strength to wield.  I shall wield it through you.  I shall draw my
strength from you."

The boy did not look at him.  "You will let your magic feed on me?"  he
asked softly, almost reverently.

"Yes."  Bremen bent close.  "I will ward you with every protection I
have.  If you die, I will die with you.  It is all I can offer."

"It is enough," the boy replied, his eyes still turned away.
"Do what you must, Bremen.  But do it now, quickly, while there is
still time."

The Northland army was massed before them, fronted by the huge war
machines, bristling with weapons at every turn.
Dust lifted from the burned, parched valley floor, filling the air with
grit that curtained off the world beyond so thoroughly that it might
have ceased to exist.  Light reflected from metal blades and points,
pennants flew in bright colors, and the sounds that rose from the
throats of the attackers were thick with the expectation of victory.

Together, the Druid and the boy faced into them, into the men and
animals, the machines, the sound and movement, standing still and alone
on the promontory.  No one saw them, or if they did, paid them any
attention.  Even the Elves took no notice, their eyes on the army
before them.

Bremen took a deep breath and placed his hands on Allanon's slender
shoulders.  "Clasp your hands and point them at the towers and the
catapults."  His throat tightened.  "Be strong, Allanon."

The boy's hands clasped together, the fingers laced, and the thin arms
lifted and pointed toward the Northland army.  Bremen stood just
behind him, his hands still, his eyes closed.
Within, he summoned the Druid fire.  It sparked and came to life.

He must be careful of its use, he reminded himself.  The balance of
what was needed and what he could afford to give was a delicate one,
and he must be careful not to upset it.  An error either way, and there
would be no help for either of them.

On the battlefield the arms of the catapults were being drawn back
and the archers in the towers were readying their bows.

Bremen's eyes opened anew, and they were as white as snow.

Below, as if warned by a premonition, Jerle Shannara turned suddenly to
look back at him.

Abruptly the Druid fire raced down Bremen's arms and into Allanon's
body, then lanced from the boy's clenched fists over the heads of the
waiting Elven army, over the torn, rutted, scorched grasslands, and
into the midst of the enemy war machines two hundred yards away.  It
struck the towers first, en gulfing them so completely that they were
ablaze before anyone could do much more than blink.  It jumped from
there to the catapults, incinerating their handlers, snapping their
ropes, and warping their metal parts.  It moved as if a living thing,
choosing first one target and then the next, the fire bright blue and
so brilliant that the men of both armies were forced to shield their
eyes from its glare.  Up and down the front ranks of the Northland army
it raced, swallowing every thing and everyone.  In moments, the flames
were rising him dreds of feet into the air, soaring skyward in
monstrous leaps, clouds of smoke billowing after.

Shrieks and cries rose from the Northland juggernaut as the fire tore
through it.  But within the ranks of the watching Elven army there was
only stunned silence.

Bremen felt an ebbing of his magic, a wilting of his fire, but within
the boy Allanon there was power still.  Allanon seemed to grow even
stronger, his thin arms stretched forth, his hands lifting.
Bremen could feel the slender body shake with the force of the boy's
determination.  Still the fire arced from his hands, leaping beyond the
war machines into the midst of the astonished Northland army, carving
a deadly, fiery path.  Enough!
thought Bremen, sensing a dangerous tilt in the balance of things.
But he could not break the joining between the boy and himself; he
could not slow the torrent of his magic.  The boy was stronger than he
was now, and it was the old man who was being drained.

Back fell the Northlanders in the face of this new onslaught, not
merely in retreat, but routed completely, their courage shattered.
Even the Rock Trolls backed away, moving swiftly from the conflagration
that consumed their fellows for the cover of the valley slopes and the
pass beyond.  Even for them, this day's battle was finished.

Then finally Allanon's strength failed, and the Druid fire that spurted
from his clenched hands died away.  He gasped audibly and sagged
against Bremen, who was himself barely able to stand.  But the old man
caught and held the boy close, waiting patiently for the pulse of their
bodies to steady and their heartbeats to slow.  Like scarecrows, they
clung to each other, whispering words of reassurance, staring out
across the raging inferno that consumed the Northland war machines and
lit the backs of the retreating enemy with fingers the color of
blood.

West, the sun sank below the horizon, and night crept cautiously from
hiding to cloak the dead.

IN THE AFTERMATH of the destruction of the Northland war machines, and
with darkness spreading across the whole of the Four Lands and the
fires at the center of the Rhenn beginning to burn down, Jerle Shannara
approached Bremen.  The old man was sitting on the promontory with
Allanon, eating his dinner.
It was quiet now, the Northland army withdrawn into the gap at the
eastern flat, the Elves still maintaining their lines across the
western narrows.  Meals were being consumed throughout the ranks of the
defenders, the Elven Hunters eating in shifts to guard against any
surprise assault.  Cook fires burned at the rear of the encampment, and
the smell of food wafted on the evening air.

The old man stood as the king came up to him, seeing in the other's
eyes a look he did not recognize.  The king greeted them both, then
asked Bremen to walk alone with him.  The boy went back to his meal
without comment.  Together, the Druid and the king moved off into the
shadows.

When they were far enough away from everyone that they could not be
heard, the king turned to the old man.  "I need you to do something,"
he said quietly.  "I need you to use your magic to mark the Elves in a
way that will allow them to recognize each other in the dark in a
battle with the Northlanders, so that they will not kill each other by
mistake.  Can you do that?"

Bremen considered the question for a moment, then nodded slowly.
"What are you going to do?"

The king was worn and haggard, but there was a cold determination in
his eyes and a harshness to his features.  "I intend to attack-now,
tonight, before they can regroup."

The old man stared at him speechlessly.


The king's mouth tightened.  "This morning my Trackers brought word of
a Northland flanking movement.  They have sent separate armies-smaller
than the one we face, but still sizeable-both north and south of the
Rhenn to get behind us.
They must have sent them at least a week ago, given their present
positions.  Their progress is slow, but they are closing in on us.  In
another few days, they will cut us off from Arborlon.  If that happens,
we are finished."

He looked off into the dark, as if searching for what to say next.
"They are too many, Bremen.  We knew that from the start.  Our only
advantage is our defensive position.  If that is taken from us, we have
nothing left."  His eyes shifted back to the old man.  "I have sent
Prekkian and the Black Watch to give warning to Vree Erreden and the
Council and to prepare a de fense of the city.  But our only real hope
is if I do what you have told me I must-confront the Warlock Lord and
destroy him.
To do that, I must first scatter the Northland army.  I will never have
a better chance to do so than now.  The Northlanders are disorganized
and weary.  The destruction of their war machines has unnerved them.
The Druid magic has left them frightened.
This is the time to strike."

Bremen took a long time to consider his reply.  Then at last he nodded
slowly.  "Perhaps you are right."

"If we attack them now, we will catch them unprepared.  If we strike
hard enough, we might be able to break through to where the Warlock
Lord hides himself.  The confusion of a nighttime attack will aid us,
but only if we can distinguish ourselves from our enemy."

The Druid sighed.  "if I mark the Elves to make them recognizable to
each other, I provide the enemy with a way to recognize them as
well."

"We cannot help that."  The king's voice was steady.  "It will take the
Northlanders a while before they realize what the marks mean.
By then, we will have won or lost the battle in any case.

Bremen nodded without speaking.  It was a bold tactic, one that might
doom the Elves, that might result in their complete destruction.
But the need for such a tactic was at once apparent, and the Druid saw
in this king the one man who might be able to employ it successfully.
For the Elves would follow Jerle Shannara anywhere, and faith in their
leader was what would sustain them best.

"But I am afraid," the king whispered suddenly, bending close, "that I
will not be able to invoke the power of the Sword when it is needed."
He paused, his eyes fixed and staring.  "What if it will not respond to
me?  What will I do?"

The Druid reached out, took the king's hands in his own, and clasped
them tightly.  "The magic will not fail you, Jerle Shannara," he
replied softly.  "You are too strong of heart for that, too fixed of
purpose, too much the king your people need.
The magic will appear when you summon it, for that is your destiny."
His smile was bleak.  "You must believe that."

The king took a deep breath.  "Come with me," he asked.

The old man nodded.  "I will come."

NORTH FROM THE RHENN, where clouds layered the open grass lands with
shadows and the plains stretched away empty and silent, Kinson
Ravenlock slipped noiselessly from the clamor and sprawl of the
Northland camp and worked his way back the way he had come.  It took
him the better part of an hour, keeping to the ravines and dry
riverbeds, staying off the high, open flats.  He went swiftly, anxious
to reach those who waited, thinking that perhaps they had not come too
late after all.

More than ten days had passed since Mareth and he had set out from the
Eastland with what remained of the Dwarf army.
The Dwarves were still almost four thousand strong, and they had made
good time.  They had chosen an unusual route, how ever.  Their passage
had taken them north across the Plains of Rabb, through the Jannisson,
and onto the Streleheim, where they had crossed in the shadow of the
old growth that shrouded doomed Paranor, The decision to come this way
had been debated long and hard by Raybur and the Dwarf Elders, though
no longer than the decision on whether the Dwarves should come at
all.
As to the latter, Kinson had been forceful in presenting Bremen's
arguments, and Risca was firmly on his side.  Once Raybur was
persuaded, the matter was settled.
Choosing their route of travel was less soul-wrenching, but equally
troubling.  Risca was convinced they would have a better chance of
approaching unseen if they came down from the north through enemy
country-the Northland army having moved into the Westland by now to
besiege the Elves at the Rhenn, so that their scouts would be looking
for intervention to come from the east or south if it was to come at
all.  In the end, his argument had prevailed.

The bulk of the Dwarf army had taken up a position north half a day at
the edge of the Dragon's Teeth.  Risca, Kinson, Mareth, and two hundred
more had come on ahead to take measure of the situation.  With the
approach of sunset, Kinson Ravenlock had gone on alone for a closer
look.

Now, barely three hours after leaving, the Borderman emerged from the
shadows to rejoin his companions.

"There was an attack earlier this day," he advised breathlessly.
He had run much of the way back, anxious to impart his news."It failed.  The
Northland war machines all lie burned in
the Valley of Rhenn.  But more are being built.  The enemy en camps at
the valley's eastern mouth.  It is a huge force, but it looks
disorganized.  Everyone is milling about, and there is no sign of the
dark things.  Even the Skull Bearers do not fly this night."

"Did you get through to the Elves?"  Risca asked quickly.
"Did you see Bremen or Tay?"

The Borderman took a long drink from the aleskin Mareth offered him
and wiped at his mouth.  "No.  The valley is blocked.  I could have
gotten through, but I decided not to chance it.  I decided to come back
for you instead."

The two men looked at each other, then out across the plains.
"There are a lot of men dead back there " the Borderman said softly.
"Too many, if even a tenth of them are Elves."

Risca nodded.  "I'll send word to Raybur to bring the army forward at
first light.  He can choose his own ground from which to attack."
His bluff face was taut, and his eyes shone.  "in the meantime, we are
supposed to wait here for his arrival."

The Borderman and the girl looked at each other and shook their heads
slowly.

"I'm not waiting," Kinson Ravenlock declared.

"Nor I," said Mareth.

The Dwarf hefted his battle-axe.  "I didn't think so.  Looks like
Raybur will just have to catch up with us, won't he?  Let's get
going.


CHAPTER 32

IT WAS THREE HOURS after sunset and nearing midnight when Jerle Shannara
led the Elves into their final battle.  He left behind the sick and
wounded and a token force to act as protectors and rear guard and took
with him only those who were whole.  Elven Hunters, Home Guard, bowmen,
and others afoot numbered just over two thousand.
Cavalry numbered about four hundred.  He assembled them on the flat at
the head of the valley, close to where the wreckage of the Northland
war machines still smoldered, and unit by unit walked among them and
explained what he intended.

As he did so, Bremen passed through their ranks as well, carrying with
him a small pot of glowing light.  The light was bluish in color,
giving off a phosphorescent glow that shone most brightly in
darkness.
It seemed to be neither paste nor liquid, but simply glowing air.  It
was formed mostly of Druid magic, but of other substances as well,
though nothing anyone could identify.  Bremen's voice was low and
reassuring as he ap proached each man with the pot.  One by one, he
marked their shoulders with the light, using a frayed stick to dip into
the glow, carrying just a little of the mysterious substance to streak
each soldier's clothing, 

When they started forward into the darkness,
into the heart of the Rhenn, each man wore strips of cloth tied over
the bright markings to hide his coming from the enemy.  Select members
of the Home Guard went first, fanning out in front of the attack force,
some climbing the slopes to the valley's ridges and then slipping
forward to secure the heights that warded the east pass.
When they had been given sufficient lead time, Jerle Shannara took the
main body of the army forward.  Commanding from the center with Preia
Starle and Bremen at his side, he placed Cormorant Etrurian on his left
flank and Rustin Apt on his right.  Arrayed across the width of the
advance, just back of the front rank of Elven Hunters, were Arn Banda's
bowmen.  Behind them came more Elven Hunters, and much farther back,
held in reserve for when the foot soldiers were fully engaged, walked
the Elven horse under Kier Joplin.

The king's strategy was simple.  The Elves were to advance as close to
the Northland lines as possible without being seen and then strike out
of the darkness, taking advantage of surprise and confusion to overrun
the perimeter, hoping their momentum would carry them into the heart
of the enemy camp and the sanctuary of the Warlock Lord.
There Jerle Shannara would bring the rebel Druid to bay and destroy
him.  That was the whole of it.  There were so many things that could
go wrong with this plan that it wasn't worth trying to consider them
all.
Timing and surprise were everything.  Determination and heart would
make the difference.  If the Elves were to lose control of the former
or not muster enough of the latter, they would be destroyed.

But on this night, warded by Druid magic and armored by stubborn faith,
the Elves gave themselves over to their king and to fate.  Their doubts
and fears dissipated with the first step taken, with the realization
that the attack was under way and there was no turning back, and with
an overwhelming rush of expectation that supplanted all else.  They
went swiftly down the valley corridor, noiseless in the way that only
Elves could be, sharp eyes picking out the obstacles that lay in their
path so that they could avoid them, ears pricked to the warning sounds
of danger.  There was no light to guide them, the skies clouded once
more, the air thick with lingering smoke from the afternoon's
conflagration.  Ahead, the watch fires of the enemy provided a series
of lonely beacons, small pinpricks of yellow that flickered in the
gloom.

Jerle Shannara gave no thought to failure as he led the way, the Sword
of Shannara strapped across his back.  He did not think of anything but
the task at hand, closing off all distractions, shelving for another
time considerations that did not bear on this night's work.
Preia walked at one elbow and Bremen at the other, and in their
presence the King of the Elves felt oddly invincible.  It was not that
he couldn't die: he would never presume immortality.  But it seemed to
him in those desperate moments that failure was unthinkable.  There was
strength surrounding him, yet dependency as well.  An odd mix, but
familiar to a king.  The Elves would give their lives for him, but he
must be ready to give up his for them as well.  Only in the setting and
maintaining of that balance could any of them hope to survive, to
persevere, to achieve the victory they sought.

The king's eyes shifted to the shadows on the heights, searching for
sentries who might give the alarm.  None appeared.  The Home Guard had
dispatched them without being discovered, it seemed.  Behind, far back
in the valley's cradle, he could hear the faint jingle of traces and
the creak of leather as the cavalry followed them in.  Ahead, the
flames of the watch fires grew distinguishable, and beyond their
perimeter, the camp of the Northland army.  The size of the camp seemed
immense, a sprawling maze of tents and stores and men, a jumble of
life, like a small city.  There were so many of them still, the king
thought.  The Elven attack would have to be certain and quick.

The Westlanders were within fifty yards of the camp when he brought
them to a halt, there to crouch just beyond the re vealing light of the
watch fires.  Sentries stood staring off into the night, some glancing
idly over their shoulders at what was taking place in the camp.  They
showed no concern for what might lie within the darkness they evidenced
no expectation of an attack.  Jerle Shannara felt a hot surge of
satisfaction in his chest.  He had guessed right, it seemed.
He thought suddenly of all he had endured to reach this point, and he
found himself wishing that Tay Trefenwyd were there with him.
Together, they could have overcome anything.  It would never be the
same for him again without Tay, he thought.  Never.

With a gesture, he sent word through the Elven ranks to stand ready.
Then Banda brought his bowmen to their feet, arrows notched in the
strings of longbows.  The king lifted his sword, and the arrows flew
skyward in a deadly hail.  By the time the arrows fell, finding their
unsuspecting targets, the Elves were hurtling forward in attack.

They were swift and deadly in their coming.  In seconds, they had
crossed the open ground and were through the camp perimeter.  The
sentries all lay dead, felled by arrows or spears.
Northlanders who were crouched about the cooking fires leaped to their
feet as the Elves swept into them, reaching for their weapons, crying
out in warning.  But the Elves were among them so quickly that most
were killed before they could de fend themselves.  Jerle Shannara led
the way, cutting a path through the outer lines almost at will, his
Home Guard flocking to his side.  Preia went with him, a steady
presence at his shoulder.  Bremen fell behind, too old and slow to keep
up, calling after the king to go on, not to wait.  On the heights, the
enemy not already dispatched were engaged in hand-to-hand combat with
the Home Guard who had slipped among them while they slept.  In the
smoky darkness, only the Elves could recognize each other, the Druid
markings agleam on their shoulders.  Everywhere, the enemy camp was in
turmoil.

Then abruptly the king found himself in the midst of a company of
newly awakened Rock Trolls, the huge creatures surging upward from
their blankets in response to the alarm, their armor scattered about
them, but their weapons already in hand.
Jerle Shannara broke for the center of the camp, trying to avoid being
slowed, but several of the Trolls managed to get in front of him, and
he was forced to stand and fight.  He closed with the nearest, swinging
the Sword of Shannara in a bright arc, and the Troll went down.  Others
fought to reach the king, recognizing him now, calling out in their
guttural voices to their fellows.  But Home Guard threw themselves into
the path of the counterattack, swarming over the Trolls from every
direction to bear them to the earth and certain death.

From out of the darkness behind him, the king heard Kier Joplin's horns
sound the charge, and the Elven cavalry thundered into battle.
An explosion rocked the encampment, and a pillar of fire lifted
skyward.  In its ragged glare, the king caught sight of Bremen,
standing in the midst of fleeing Gnomes and lesser Trolls, a thin,
ragged figure with his skinny arms stretched wide before him and the
boy Allanon at his side.

Ahead the dark, skull-draped tents of the Warlock Lord and his minions
came into view.  A surge of excitement rushed through Jerle Shannara,
and he redoubled his efforts to break through the enemy soldiers
confronting him.  Then something monstrous rose out of the night to one
side, and he was forced to turn and face it.  It had the look of a
wolf, but its head was vaguely human behind jaws lined with rows of
jagged teeth.  It tore at the Elves that sought to reach it, flinging
them away.  It reached for Preia Starle, but she sidestepped its lunge
and left her sword buried in its neck.  The beast came on, wounded, but
unslowed, jaws snapping.  Jerle Shannara was bowled over un able to
avoid its rush, and he fought in vain to escape from between its legs
as his Elven Hunters hacked desperately at it.
Then, when the creature rose on its hind legs to tear at him, he jammed
the Sword of Shannara deep into its chest and through to its heart, and
the beast collapsed in a lifeless heap.

The king scrambled to his feet.  "The tents!"  he cried to every Elf
within hearing distance, and with Preia at his side he charged ahead.

BEYOND THE MOUTH of the Rhenn, on the camp's northern perimeter,
Kinson, Mareth, and Risca and the Dwarves were working their way toward
the eastern heights in an effort to find an opening through the
Northland lines.  When the Elven attack began, they froze, uncertain
what was happening.  Shouts and screams rose out of the Northland camp,
and everything quickly turned to chaos.  Instantly, the battle-tested
Dwarves formed a defensive wedge fronting the stricken camp and watched
as the Northlanders closest to the perimeter rose swiftly from their
sleep, snatched up their weapons, and began to look about wildly.

"What's happening?"  Mareth hissed in Kinson Raven lock's ear.

Then they heard the Elven battle cry ring out, lifting above the
clamor, one voice after another taking it up.

"The Elves are attacking!"  exclaimed Risca in wonder.

Arrows flew into the camp from the heights, raking the startled
soldiers clustered there.  Within the mouth of the valley, at the
forefront of the Northland perimeter, weapons clashed sharply.  The
Dwarves stood transfixed as the battle was joined, listening as the
sounds heightened and then drew closer.  The Elves had penetrated the
Northland defenses and were plunging directly into the heart of the
enemy camp.

"What should we do?"  Kinson asked of no one in particular, staring
through the darkness to where knots of enemy soldiers appeared and
faded in the smoky haze of the watch fires.

Directly in front of them, a Skull Bearer took flight, rising like a
specter, wings spread wide, claws flexing.  Banking away from the
Dwarves, the winged hunter streaked east onto the plains.  An instant
later, another followed.

"They're fleeing!"  Mareth burst out in disbelief.

Then something at the camp's very center exploded skyward in a pillar
of flame, rising into the darkness like a fiery spear thrust at the
clouds by some unseen hand.  It hung against the black for long
moments, then disappeared into smoke.

Risca hefted his great battle-axe and looked at the others.
"I've seen enough.  The Elves need us.  Let's not keep them waiting."

The command moved forward, Risca in the lead, Kinson and Mareth to
either side.  The Dwarves spread out in attack formation.  Risca took
them slightly east of the heights, wary of the bowmen hiding there,
anxious to avoid being mistaken for Northlanders.  They veered left,
angling toward the rear of the encampment where the Gnome horsemen were
already struggling to mount and ride.  When they were just below the
picket lines, Risca gave the Dwarf battle cry and led his Hunters in.

Almost at once, they were set upon.  Whether it was by chance or as a
result of the defenders' quick reaction, the Dwarves found themselves
instantly surrounded by an entire company of Rock Trolls, all fully
armored and bearing pikes.
Two dozen Dwarves died in the first minute of fighting, unable to stand
against the more powerful Trolls.  Risca rallied those closest, called
up the Druid fire, and burned a path through the Northlanders, forcing
them to fall back.  A counterattack en sued, spearheaded by a handful
of the huge wolves that Brona had summoned from the Black Oaks.
Again the Dwarves were forced back, and this time their charge broke
apart at its center.

In the confusion, Kinson and Mareth were separated from Risca.
The Druid went left toward the rear of the Northland camp, while the
Borderman and the girl turned right, following in the wake of a knot of
Dwarves who were intent on linking up with the Elves already fighting
at the camp's center.  Risca, caught up in the fury of the battle, did
not immediately miss them, his mind on something else entirely.  The
intensity of the Northland defense here, at the rear of the encampment,
when the main thrust of the Elven attack was coming from the front,
convinced him that the Warlock Lord was close at hand.  Having seen two
of the Skull Bearers take flight already, he sus pected that the attack
was proving to be more devastating than the Elves realized and that
Brona was preparing an escape.  With Rock Trolls and netherworld
creatures to defend him, he would slip from the camp with his winged
hunters and retreat north once more.  Northlanders were already racing
away into the night, fleeing the camp like snakes driven from their
nest.
Gnomes and lesser Trolls were abandoning the struggle, leaving others
to fight in their place.  The cavalry was scattering in every
direction, leaderless and panicked.  The back of the North land army
was broken, and it did not require much insight to deduce that its
leaders-for whom the passing of time meant nothing-intended to take
refuge once more in their safehold beyond the Knife Edge, there to
regroup and plan a new invasion.

But Risca had lived through too much to let that happen.
The Druid was determined to stop them here.

With a dozen of his Dwarves in tow, he fought his way toward the twenty
or so Gnome horsemen still held in check by one of the Skull Bearers.
Raging among them, a savage wraith with glowing eyes and billowing
cloak, the Skull Bearer was forming the terrified Gnome riders into
lines clearly intended to act as a flanking guard.  Beyond, where the
night was blackest and the camp unlit, there was movement amid the
black silk tents.  Horses shrilled as they were whipped into place, and
huge darkened carriages rolled through the gloom and smoke on their way
to the plains.

Risca, his battle-axe in hand and the Druid fire hot within his breast,
moved to intercept them.

JERLE SHANNARA FOUGHT his way forward with unrelenting ferocity.
He was at the forefront of the Elven attack still, deep now within the
Northland camp, leading everyone as they closed on the dark, whispery
canopy of the Warlock Lord's tent.
He had entered a black pool of ground, a place where no light
penetrated.  The watch fires he had left behind at the perimeter of the
camp cast strange shadows in the deepening gloom, but there was little
to see by and less to trust.  The creatures that sought to stop him
grew quickly indistinguishable, some of them Trolls and Gnomes, some of
them other beings entirely.
He drove into them without regard for their identity, with no concern
for anything but breaking past.  Preia fought at his side, as hard and
ferocious as he was.  The Home Guard came after, trying vainly to keep
up.  All about, the Northland camp was chaotic with sound and
movement.

Ahead, somewhere in the darkness, close by the darkened tents, there
was the sound of carriages and wagons rolling, of traces creaking, of
whips snapping, of horses crying out in re sponse to the demands of
their handlers.

Then Preia went down, knocked from her feet by a dark shape that
bounded out of the blackness on all fours.  Jaws widened and teeth
gleamed as a huge, bristling body fell upon the queen.  Jerle whirled
to defend her, but he was struck at the same time by another of the
shapes, caught off guard and sent sprawling.  Others appeared, wolves
who charged out of the gloom, tearing into the Elves who sought to
penetrate this for bidden ground.  They came in such numbers that for a
moment it seemed they would prove unstoppable.  Preia had disappeared
in a tangle of bodies.  Jerle Shannara was fighting from his back and
knees, swinging the Sword at everything that came close, struggling to
regain his feet.

"Shannara!  Shannara!"  came the rallying cry, as Elven Hunters and
Home Guard raced to give aid.

Druid fire erupted then, scorching the nearest of the wolves in
midleap, and Bremen entered the fray, his robes in tatters, his eyes
gleaming like those of the creatures he sought to dispatch.
The wolves drew back in fear, teeth bared.  Another disappeared in blue
flame, and the rest scattered, howling with rage and terror.  The king
scrambled to his feet, wheeling in search of Preia.
But she was already standing beside him, her face streaked with sweat
and twisted with pain, blood all across one arm where the tough leather
clothing and soft flesh had been ripped to the bone.  She was binding
up the wound, but her face was pale and stricken.

"Go on!"  she screamed at him.  "Don't wait!  I'm coming!"

He hesitated only a moment, then raced ahead once more, a handful of
the Home Guard following.  The wolves having been the last of the creatures
set at guard over the Warlock Lord, the way lay open.  Ahead the ground
was a black hole, but Jerle Shannara did not slow.  Only one thing
mattered-that he find the enemy leader and bring him to bay.  He
crossed the unlit ground in a dead run, heedless of what he might be
rushing into, no longer caring what waited, so caught up in his determination 
to bring this battle to an end that he would have faced
anything.

from somewhere behind, he heard Bremen shout in warning, calling after
him futilely, the old man so worn from the battle, so drained of
strength by his use of the magic, that he could not follow.

Jerle Shannara reached the tent of the Warlock Lord on the fly, his sword sweeping
down, tearing through the dark fabric, sending the necklace of skulls
and bones that draped the stanchions clattering away into the night.
The tent wall shredded beneath his blade, and a cold, dry wind brushed
at his face as he charged through the opening.

The interior was so black he couldn't see.  Blind to what might be
waiting, fighting to protect himself, he swung the Sword of Shannara in
a wide arc, cutting out at everything within reach.  But his blade
whistled uselessly through the air.
He launched himself across the darkness to the tent's far side and
sliced the concealing fabric apart, opening it to the night.
Smoke and sound rushed in, and the coldness gave way to summer's
warmth and the feel of sweat against his skin.

Hurriedly he wheeled back, dropping into a protective crouch.

But the tent was empty.

AT THAT SAME MOMENT, Risca and his Dwarves attacked what remained of
the Gnome riders.  The Skull Bearer who was holding the last few in
check fell back before the onslaught of Risca's Druid fire, and the
terrified Gnomes bolted into the night.  For an instant no one opposed
the Dwarves.  Then the heavy rum ble of ironbound wheels sounded, and a
caravan of dark cloaked riders and shuttered carriages approached from
out of the besieged camp.  Risca threw himself into the caravan's path
and launched the Druid fire at the lead animals, causing them to shy
and rear and bring the carriages to a sudden, uncertain halt.

Almost immediately a crush of beasts swarmed out from behind the lurching
transports and screaming horses, charging from where they had been
trailing after, a vicious, enraged collection of netherworld
monsters.
The attack was ferocious, and it bore back Risca and the Dwarves in
spite of their efforts to contain it.  Teeth and claws tore and great
muscled limbs hammered at the Eastlanders.  The Dwarves fought with
grim determination, rallying about their leader.  Risca sent wave
after wave of Druid fire into the attackers, fighting simply for space
in which to stand.

By now the cloaked drivers were turning their carriages aside and
moving off in another direction, lashing their horses, screaming with
frustration.  Risca fought to reach them, to bring the caravan to a
stop once more.  But the netherworld creatures were everywhere, and he
could not bring the Druid fire to bear.
Their superior numbers were beginning to tell.  One by one, Risca's
companions were dropping away, dying where they stood.

Then suddenly the attackers scattered, and waves of panic stricken
Northlanders surged out of the killing ground, streaming past the
Dwarves on their way to the darkened plains.  The whole of the
Northland army seemed to be in flight, as if each soldier had decided
at the same moment that he had endured enough and that all that was
left to him was to try to escape.
Gnomes and Trolls swarmed out of the fiery battlefield and raced into
the night.  The tide was massive and unstoppable, and for a few long
moments Risca and his companions disappeared in its wake.

When the rush slowed, Risca looked about.  He was alone on the eastern
perimeter of the disintegrating camp.  The Dwarves who had fought at
his side were all dead.  The nether world beasts had disappeared,
fleeing with the Northlanders.
The fighting in the camp continued unabated as the Elves pressed ahead
against those of the enemy who had not broken, the two sides engaged in
a desperate, furious struggle.

North, where the Streleheim stretched away under leaden skies, the
Warlock Lord's caravan was beginning to draw away.

A red haze clouded the Druid's vision, and a feeling of helplessness
washed through him.  He wheeled about in search of a horse, but there
were none at hand.  The fleeing Northlanders gave him a wide berth,
catching sight of the flicker of Druid fire at the tips of his right
hand and the gleam of his battle-axe in his left.  Blood streaked his
face, and his eyes glittered with cold rage.

In the distance, the caravan faded into the night.

CHAPTER 33

BY DAWN the Northland army had been routed, and the Elves were riding in
pursuit of the Warlock Lord.  The battle had raged on through most of
the night, evolving from a single engagement into dozens of small,
hard-fought clashes.  While some of the Northlanders had fled early,
many had remained.  The more tightly knit and better disciplined units
had held their ground to the end.  The fighting had been bitter and
desperate, and no quarter had been given.

When it was finished, the Northland army was scattered in all
directions.  The number of dead on both sides was staggering.  The
Elves had lost almost half of those who had gone into battle that night
with Jerle Shannara.  Rustin Apt was dead at the mouth of the pass and
his command decimated.  One-eyed Arn Banda was dead on the heights.
Cormorant Etrurian had sustained so severe a wound that he would lose
his arm.  Only Kier Joplin of the Elven horse and Trewithen of the Home
Guard remained whole, and between them they could muster only eight
hundred men who were fit enough to go on.

It was a chill, crisp day, a clear marker for the end of summer and
the beginning of autumn.  The sun rose hazy and pale against the ragged
peaks of the Dragon's Teeth just east of where Jerle Shannara's command
rode, and the grasslands were patchy with low banks of fog.
There was frost on the ground, silver and damp in the growing light,
and the breath of the men and horses clouded the air.  Hawks wheeled
through the sky, rising and falling on the wind, silent spectators to
the hunt taking place below.

Jerle Shannara never hesitated in taking up the pursuit of Brona.
He could not do otherwise, he believed.  He was beyond trepidation or
lack of resolve now, beyond fatigue and hunger, beyond quitting.  He
was bloodied and cut from the night's fighting, but he felt no pain.
He wore the Sword of Shannara strapped to his back and no longer gave
thought to whether the magic would respond to his summons.  The time
for deliberation was long since past, and all that remained was a
shouldering of the responsibility given to him.  Doubts and fears
lingered at the back of his mind, but the steady passing of the miles
swept them further from his consciousness.  He could feel only the rush
of his blood, the pounding of his heart, and the strength of his
determination.

Preia Starle went with him, although she was so badly hurt that she
needed to be helped into the saddle.  Her arm was wrapped and bound and
the bleeding had slowed, but her face was pale and drawn and her
breathing ragged.  Yet she would not stay behind when Jerle asked her
to do so.  She was strong enough to ride, she insisted, and she
would.
She would see the end of this business as she had seen the beginning-at
his side.

Bremen and the boy Allanon came, too, though Bremen was as weakened now
as Preia, his extended use of the Druid magic having left him so spent
that he had little left to give.  He had not said this, but it was
apparent to anyone with eyes and common sense.  Yet he had promised he
would be there for the king when it came time to use the Sword, and he
would not forsake his promise now.

Mareth, Kinson Ravenlock, and Risca accompanied them as well, better
rested and stronger.  For them, the battle lay ahead, and conscious of
the exhaustion that threatened the others they had quietly vowed among
themselves to give what protection they could.  Behind them rode Kier
Joplin with his cavalry and Trewithen with his Home Guard, together
with a handful of the Dwarves who had come south with Risca.
In all, they numbered less than nine hundred.  Whether they were enough
to bring the Warlock Lord to bay was not something they cared to
consider too closely.  No one knew how many had fled with the rebel
Druid or how many more had rejoined him since.  Certainly there would
be Skull Bearers and netherworld beasts and wolves from the Black Oaks
and Rock Trolls and others from the lands north and east.  If even a
small part of the army that had besieged the Rhenn had been
reassembled, the Elves would be in trouble.

Yet somewhere farther north, at the edge of the high plains, Raybur was
advancing with four thousand Dwarves.  If the Elves could just manage
to drive the Warlock Lord that way, they would have a chance.

The sun rose higher in a sky that was a strange mix of gray and silver,
and the light chased back the nighttime shadows and the chill.
But the mist refused to give way, clinging tenaciously to the flats,
folding in on itself about the broad swales and shallow ravines that
crisscrossed the plains.  Pools of it collected between stretches of
high ground, leaving the grasslands looking vaguely swamplike.  Nothing
moved in the distance, the horizon empty and still.  Overhead, the
hawks had disappeared.  Jerle Shannara's command traveled in
tight-lipped silence, maintaining a steady, even pace, keeping close
watch over the land about.

It was nearing midafternoon when they finally caught up with the
Warlock Lord.  There had been reason to believe they were closing the
gap since midday, when they had begun to find abandoned carriages and
wagons that had broken down during the enemy flight.  An hour earlier
they had cut across their quarry's trail, a rutted mass of tracks from
wheels, animals, and men that made it difficult even for the Trackers
to determine how many traveled with the Warlock Lord.  Preia had
climbed down to look-against the king's wishes-and reported in her
quiet, assured way that there were less than a thousand.

Now, as the Elven command drew to a halt on a rise several hundred
yards south from where the remnant of the Northland army had been
forced to make its stand, they were able to see for themselves that the
queen's guess had been right.  The dark carriages and wagons were drawn
up in the shadow of a series of hills that rose east in stepping-stone
fashion toward the Dragon's Teeth.  The creatures of the Warlock Lord
were backed against them-Rock Trolls and other things human: nether
world creatures cloaked and hooded: gray wolves that crouched and
circled at the edges of the mist; and Skull Bearers, some soaring like
great dark birds above the assemblage.

Beyond, arrayed across the high ground in battle formation, blocking
any path north, were the Dwarves under Raybur.  The Warlock Lord had
been stopped in his flight.

Yet the mist was deceiving, its shadowy images illusory.
Many of the creatures, hunkered down atop the flat, their bodies
wrapped in shrouds of swirling gray, were dead.  They lay at peculiar
angles, crumpled against rocks and impaled on weapons.  Arms and legs
crooked skyward like broken sticks.  Dark outlines shimmered in the
haze, the burnt, scorched leavings of those dead who had come from the
netherworld.  A battle had been fought already this day.  The rebel
Druid and his followers had come upon the Eastlanders and attempted to
break through their lines.  But the attempt had failed.  The Dwarves
had repelled them.  So the Warlock Lord had collected what was left of
his army and withdrawn to his present position.  The Dwarves were
poised for another strike.  Both sides were waiting.

jerle Shannara stared.  Waiting for what?

Recognition came swiftly.  For me, he thought.  For the Sword of
Shannara.

He realized then that it would all end here, on this lonely stretch of
the Streleheim, on this already bloodied ground.  He would face the
Warlock Lord in combat, and one or the other of them would be killed.
It had been prophesied by a distant, perverse fate that had long ago
laid the matter to rest.

He looked at the others, surprised at how calm he felt.  "We have him
trapped.  He cannot escape.  The Dwarves have denied him flight into
the deep Northland, and now he must face us."

Risca hefted his battle-axe.  "Let's not keep him waiting."

"One moment."  It was Bremen, old and battered almost be yond
recognition in the falling afternoon light, a worn-out stick man with
nothing left to lean on but ragged determination.  "He is waiting for
us, indeed.  He wants us to come.  That should give us pause."

The Dwarf's face was hard, his eyes set.  "He has no choice but to
wait.  What troubles you, Bremen?"

"Think, Risca.  He seeks to do battle with us because if he wins he
might yet escape."  The old man's eyes traveled from face to face.
"If he destroys us all, all those who remain of the Druids, and the
King of the Elves in the bargain, he would eliminate the greatest of
the dangers that threaten him and per haps facilitate a means for
avoiding his own death.  He could hide then and recover.  He could wait
for a chance to return."

"He will not escape me," Risca muttered darkly.

"Do not underestimate him, Risca," the old man cautioned.
"Do not underestimate the power of the magic he wields."

There was a long silence.  Risca remembered how close he had come to
dying the last time he had sought to engage the Warlock Lord.  His gaze
leveled on the old man, then shifted toward the hazy flats.  "What are
you suggesting?  That we do nothing?"

"Only that we be cautious."


"Why would we be anything else?"  Risca's voice was filled with
impatience.  "We are wasting time!  How long are we going to stand
here?"

"He waits for me," Jerle Shannara said suddenly.  "He knows I come for
him."  The others looked at him.  "He will do battle with me now
because he believes it is the easiest course for him to follow.  He has
no fear of me.  He believes that I will be destroyed."

"You won't face him alone," said Preia Starle quickly.  "We will be
with you."

"All of us!"  snapped Risca, daring anyone to challenge him.

"But there is danger in this," Bremen cautioned again.  "All of us
grouped together.  We are tired and spent.  We are not as strong as we
should be."

Mareth stepped forward now, her dark face intense.  "We are strong
enough, Bremen."  She gripped the Druid staff tightly in both hands.
"You cannot expect us simply to stand and watch."

"We came a long way to see an end to this," echoed Kinson Ravenlock.
"This is our fight as well."

They stared at the old man, all of them, waiting for him to speak.
He looked at them without seeing, his eyes distant and lost.  He seemed
to be considering something more than what they could comprehend,
something far beyond the here and now, beyond the immediate danger.

"Bremen," the king said softly, waiting until the aged eyes found
him.
"I am ready for this.  Do not doubt me."

The Druid studied him for a long moment, then nodded in weary
resignation.  "We shall do as you wish, Elven King."

Risca ordered signal flags raised on lances to advise Raybur of what
they intended.  A return signal quickly appeared.  The Dwarves would
advance on the Elves command.  The way north would be blocked against
any who tried to flee.  It was up to Jerle Shannara and the Elves to
hammer shut the jaws of the trap.

The king called forward Trewithen and a dozen Home Guard to stand with
him.  Risca called for six of his Dwarves.
While they assembled, Jerle Shannara pulled Preia Starle aside and
spoke quickly.  "I want you to wait here for me," he told her.


She shook her head.  "I cannot do that and you know it."

"You are injured.  You lack the speed and strength you could call upon
if you were whole.  How do you expect to make up for that?"

"Do not ask this of me."

"It will distract me if I have to worry about you!"  His face was
flushed and his eyes angry.  His voice dropped to a whisper.
"I love you, Preia."

"Would you ask Tay Trefenwyd to stay behind if he were here?"  she
replied softly.  She gave him a moment to consider, her eyes searching
his.  A small, fragile smile followed.  "I love you, too.  So don't
expect less of me than I do of myself."

At the same moment, Kinson Ravenlock was speaking with Mareth.
"Will you be all right when this begins?"  he asked her quietly.

She looked at him in surprise.  "Of course.  Why wouldn't I be?"

"You will have to use your magic.  It will not be easy.  You have
spoken yourself of your distaste for it."

"I have," she agreed, moving close, touching him lightly on the
shoulder.  "But I will do what I must, Kinson."

Bremen moved to the forefront of the company and turned to face them.
"I will ward us with enough magic to deflect a first strike, but I can
do no more.  My strength is at an end.  Risca and Mareth must stand for
us all.  Look out for each other, but mostly look out for the king.  He
must be given a chance to use the Sword against Brona.
Everything depends on it."

"He will have his chance," Risca promised, standing directly before the
old man.  "We owe Tay Trefenwyd that much."

They started forward then, Jerle Shannara leading, Preia Starle at his
side, the king and queen flanked on the right by Risca and on the left
by Bremen.  The boy Allanon and Kinson Ravenlock and Mareth walked
several paces back.  Home Guard and Dwarf Hunters spread out to either
side.  Behind, the rest of the army followed.  North, the Dwarves
started down off the heights.  The light was beginning to fail now as
sunset approached, the shadows lengthening, the chill of early evening
creeping into the air.  Before them on the flats, the things in the
mist shifted to attack.

The gray wolves struck first, hurtling forward in dark knots, tearing
at the front ranks of Elves and Dwarves, slashing with their teeth
before darting away.  Risca threw out sheets of the Druid fire to
scatter the closest, and instantly he was set upon by others.  Huge
netherworld creatures lumbered into view, brushing back the fire,
knocking aside the blades.  Rock Trolls marched to the fight in tight
formations, their great pikes lowered in a line of gleaming metal
tips.
Smoke from the Druid fire mingled with the mist, and the whole of the
battleground was enveloped in a gray haze.

Jerle Shannara walked ahead untouched.  Nothing approached him as he
advanced, all would-be attackers veering to the side and away.  The
Warlock Lord is waiting for you, a voice whispered deep inside.  The
Warlock Lord wants you for his own.

Rock Trolls closed with Kinson Ravenlock and bore him back, and the
Borderman went down in a tangle of massive limbs.  Mareth's staff
sparked with blue flame, but she could not use the fire without risking
harm to Kinson.  Elven Hunters rushed to the Borderman's aid, striking
at the Trolls; then other creatures joined the fray, and everyone was
swallowed in the melee.

A Skull Bearer appeared to confront Jerle Shannara, then stepped to one
side to challenge Bremen instead.  "Old man," it hissed with sullen
anticipation.

Allanon stepped in front of Bremen protectively, knowing the Druid was
spent, that his magic was all but gone.  But then Risca intervened, his
fire hammering into the Skull Bearer with such force that it threw the
monster backward and left it a smoking ruin.  The Dwarf shouldered his
way to the forefront of the attack, his clothing ripped from his battle
with the gray wolves, his face streaked with blood.  "Come ahead:" he
roared, and lifted his battle-axe in challenge.

Kinson was back on his feet, battered and shaken, his broadsword
striking at the Rock Trolls that sought to close with him.  Home Guard
and Dwarf Hunters stood shoulder to shoulder with the Borderman and
forced back the Northlanders.
Ahead, the dark, silken coverings of the carriages and wagons rippled
in the swirl of the mist like death shrouds.

Jerle Shannara walked on.  He was alone now, save for Preia.
Bremen and Allanon had fallen back, and Risca had disappeared in the
fighting.  Elven Hunters and Home Guard darted through the haze, but
the king occupied a space into which it seemed no one dared to step.
The haze opened down a corridor be fore him, and he could see a dark
cloaked figure standing at the end of the shifting passageway.

The hood lifted and with in the shadows red eyes burned with rage and
defiance.  It was the Warlock Lord.  A robed arm lifted and beckoned to
the king.

Come to me, Elf King.  Come to me.

Farther back, Bremen was struggling to reach the king.
Allanon was supporting him now, providing him with a strong shoulder on
which to lean.  The old man had summoned the Druid fire anew, using the
boy for added strength, but his weakness was profound.
He watched the Warlock Lord materialize out of the mist, watched him
beckon Jerle Shannara forward, and felt his throat tighten.  Was the
king ready for this confron tation, or would his resolve fail him?  The
Druid did not know could not know.  The king understood so little of
the Sword's demanding magic, and when faced with its power he might falter.
 There was great strength in Jerle Shannara, but uncertainty,
too.
When the Warlock Lord was before him, which would prevail?

Mareth had reached Kinson and was pulling him clear of the fighting,
driving back the Rock Trolls with Druid fire as she did so.
She swept the ground before them, and the Northlanders retreated
before her fury.  Kinson staggered as he tried to keep up with her,
deep slashes to his side and legs leaking bright red blood, one arm
hanging limp.  "Go on!"  he told her.
"Protect the king!"

The fighting was ferocious now, the Elves and Dwarves having closed
with the Northlanders from both sides.  Screams and cries rose in the
fading afternoon light, mingling with the clash of weapons and the
grunts of men struggling and dying.  Blood soaked the earth in dark
stains, and bodies lay broken and twisted in death.

One of the wagons was pulled over, and creatures that looked to be made
of sticks and metal poured out of the shattered bed, hissing like
snakes stirred from a den.  They came at Raybur with wicked intent, but
the Dwarves protecting the king drove them back.

Frustrated in their efforts, they turned instead toward Bremen and
Allanon.

In a rush, they closed about the old man and the boy.  They were wiry
and gnarled and lacking human features, their faces blunt and broken,
as if shaped by some monstrous birthing.
They broke past the Home Guard that sought to stop them and flung
themselves forward recklessly.  Allanon tried to summon the Druid fire,
but this time his efforts failed him.  Bremen was down on one knee, his
head lowered, his concentration focused on Jerle Shannara, seeking him
out in his mind as he walked deeper into the mist.

It would have been the end for them both but for Kinson Ravenlock.
Trailing after Mareth, weakened from his wounds, he caught sight of the
attack as it converged on the old man and the boy.  Reacting on
instinct, he drew on what fragile re serves of strength remained to him
and rushed to their defense.
He reached them just as the horde of wiry creatures broke past the Home
Guard.  His broadsword swung in a wide arc, and three of the creatures
went down.  Then he charged into the rest, flinging them back,
hammering at them with his weapon.
Teeth and claws slashed at him, and he could feel new wounds open.
There were too many for him to contain, and he called to Bremen and the
boy to run.  A moment later the creatures overwhelmed him and bore him
to the ground.

But Mareth saved him once more, appearing in a blaze of Druid fire, her
staff flaring wildly.  The netherworld creatures turned to strike at
her but the fire cast them away as if they were old and brittle.  A
counterattack ensued as other beings de scended on the young woman,
trying to break past her shield of flame.  Kinson tried to get to his
feet, but he was borne back again in the struggle.  Home Guard,
Dwarves, Rock Trolls, and monsters appeared in droves, and for a moment
it seemed as if all the remaining soldiers of both armies had converged
at this single point on the battlefield.

Ahead, walled away by the mist, Jerle Shannara advanced toward the
Warlock Lord.  Brona had grown in size with each step the Elf King had
taken until now he seemed enormous.  His dark form blocked the light at
the tunnel's far end, and his eyes were bright with fiery disdain.
Creatures faded in and out of the haze about him protectively.  Jerle
felt his confidence begin to waver.  Something surged out of the mist
and snatched Preia from his side.  He wheeled to save her, but she was
already gone, disappeared into the gloom.  The king cried out in fear
and anger, then heard her voice whisper hurriedly in his ear, felt her
hand clutch his arm, and realized she had never left him at all and
what he had seen was only an illusion.

The Warlock Lord's laughter was wicked and sly.

Come to me, Elf King!  Come to me!

Then Preia stumbled and went down.  Jerle reached for her without
taking his eyes from the dark figure ahead, but she pulled away from
him.

"Leave me," she said.

"No," he replied at once, refusing to listen.

"I am hindering you, Jerle.  I am slowing you down."

"I won't leave you!"

She reached for his face, and he could feel the blood on her hands,
slippery and warm.  "I cannot stay on my feet.  I am bleeding too badly
to go on.  I have to stop now, jerle.  I have to wait here for you.
Please.  Leave me."

She looked at him unflinchingly, her ginger eyes fixed on his, her face
white and twisted with pain.  Slowly he straightened, drawing away
from her, fighting to keep the tears from his eyes.  "I will be back
for you," he promised.

He left her stretched out on her side, propped up on one elbow, her
short sword in her free hand.  He took only a few steps before looking
back to make certain she was all right.  She nodded for him to go
on.
When he looked back for her a second time, she was gone.

Kinson Ravenlock had climbed back to his feet once more and was trying
to bring his broadsword to bear against the crush of enemies that
threatened to engulf Mareth when he was struck such a terrible blow
that he was knocked to the ground and left gasping for breath.
Mareth turned toward him, and as she did so she was set upon by a huge
wolf.  It was on her be fore she could bring the Druid fire to bear,
slamming into her with such force that she lost her grip on the Druid
staff.  She went down in a heap, the wolf tearing at her.  Kinson heard
her scream and tried desperately to go to her, but his legs would not
respond.  He lay there spitting blood, his breathing harsh an shallow,
is consciousness fading away.

Then the Druid fire exploded out of Mareth, flying her in all
directions.  The attacking wolf was incinerated.  Everyone standing for
a dozen yards around was consumed.  Kinson covered his head
instinctively, but the fire singed his face and hands and sucked away
the air he tried to breathe.  The Border man cried out helplessly, and
everything disappeared in a huge rush of flame.

In the tunnel of mist that led to the Warlock Lord, Preia Starle
watched as one of the Skull Bearers materialized out of the gloom and
started toward her.  jerle was no longer visible, too far ahead now to
be seen.  She could have called out to him, but she chose not to.
Painfully, she pulled herself to her knees, but could get no farther.
Frustration tore at her.  Yet it had been her choice to come.  She
watched as the creature approached, her sword held protectively before
her.  She would have only one chance to strike, and that might not be
enough in any case.  She took a deep breath, wishing she had strength
enough to stand.

The Skull Bearer hissed at her, and its great, leathery wings flapped
softly against its humped back.

"Little Elf," it whispered in pleasure, and its red eyes gleamed.

It reached for her, and she drew back her sword to strike.

Jerle Shannara had closed the distance between himself and the Warlock
Lord to less than a dozen yards.  He watched the dark cloaked form
shift and change before him as if part of the mist that swirled about
them both.  Within the hooded shadows the twin fires of its eyes burned
with fierce intent.  No part of what was left of Brona revealed
itself.
The Warlock Lord floated above the earth as if weightless-an empty
shell.  The strange, compelling voice continued to call to the Elf
King.

Come to me.  Come to me.

Jerle Shannara did.  He brought up his sword, the talisman he had
carried to this confrontation, the magic he did not know how to use,
and he advanced to do battle.  As he did so, a flash of light danced
off the surface of the blade, ran its polished length, and disappeared
into his body.  He faltered as the light entered him, feeling it pulse
with energy.  A warm flush enveloped him, spreading outward from his
chest to his limbs.  He felt the warmth return to the Sword, carrying
with it some part of himself, joining the two so that he became one
with the blade.  It happened so fast that it was done before he could
think to stop it.  He stared at the Sword in wonder, now an ex tension
of himself, then at the dark figure before him, and then at the world
of mist and shadows as it slowly began to recede.

Down he went then, deep inside himself, drawn by a force he could not
resist.  He grew tiny as the world about grew large, and soon he was
reduced to an insignificant speck of life in a vast, teeming universe
of lives.  He saw himself as he was, all +lost without presence, little
more than dust.  He was borne on the back of a wind over all the world
that was and all that would ever be, the whole of it revealed in a vast
tapestry that spread much farther than he could hope to see or even to
travel.  This was what he was, he realized.  This was his worth in the
larger scheme of things.

Then the world he flew above seemed to shed its skin in layers, and
what had been bright and perfect turned dark and flawed.  All the
horrors and betrayals of all the creatures throughout time flared to
life in tiny segments of revelation.
Jerle Shannara recoiled from the pain and dismay he felt at each, but
there was no turning away.  This was the truth of things-the truth that
he had been told the Sword would reveal to him.  He shuddered at the
vastness of it, at the depth and breadth of its permutations.  He was
horrified and ashamed, stripped of his illusions, forced to see his
world and its people for what they were.

He felt in that instant as if he might fail in his resolve.  But the
images withdrew, the world darkened, and for a moment he was back in
the mist, standing frozen before the towering form of the Warlock Lord,
the Sword of Shannara gleaming with white light.

Help me, he prayed to no one, for he was all alone.

The light filled him anew, and again the world of mist and shadows
receded.  He went back down inside himself, and this time he was
brought face-to-face with the truth of his own life.
With inexorable purpose it unfolded before him, image by image, a vast
collage of experiences and events.  But the images were not of the
things he wished to see; they were of those he wished forgotten, of
those he had buried in his past.  There was nothing of himself of which
he was proud, with which he had ever hoped to be confronted.  Lies,
half truths, and deceptions rose like ghosts at haunt.  Here was the
real Jerle Shannara, the creature who was flawed and imperfect, weak
and insecure, in sensitive and filled with false pride.  He saw the
worst of what he had done in his life.  He saw the ways in which he had
disappointed others, had ignored their needs, had left them in pain.
So many times he had failed to do what was needed.  So many times he
had misjudged.

He tried to look away.  He tried to make the images stop.
He would have run from what he was being shown if he could have freed
himself from the Sword's magic to do so.  These were truths that he
could not face, their harshness so intense that they threatened his
sanity.  He might have cried out in despair-he could not tell.  He
realized in that moment the terrible power of truth, and he saw why
Bremen had been so concerned for him.  He did not have the strength
for this: he did not have the resolve.  The Druid had been wrong to
come to him.  The Sword of Shannara was not meant for him.  Choosing
him to bear it had been wrong.

Yet he did not give way entirely before what he was shown, even when it
touched on Tay Trefenwyd and Preia Starle, even when it revealed the
depth of their friendship.  He forced him self to watch it, to accept
it, and to forgive himself for the jealousy it aroused in him, and he
felt himself grow stronger by doing so.  He found himself thinking that
perhaps this was in deed a weapon that could be used against the
Warlock Lord, a creature whose entire being was founded on illusion.
What price would the magic exact from Brona when he was forced to
discover that he was composed of little more than men's fears, a mirage
that could vanish with a simple change in the light?
Perhaps this creature was so badly formed that nothing of its humanity,
of its flesh and blood, of its emotion and reason re mained.
Perhaps truth was anathema to it.

The images faded and the light died.  Jerle Shannara watched the air
before him clear and the dark form of the Warlock Lord materialize
once more.  How long had the magic taken to reveal itself to him?  How
long had he stood there, transfixed?  The cloaked form advanced now, a
steady, relentless closing of the space between them.  The Warlock
Lord's voice hissed with anticipation.  Wave upon wave of nausea struck
at the Elf King, hammering at the firmness of his purpose, breaking
past his physical strength to drain the courage from his heart.

Come to me.  Come to me.

Jerle Shannara saw himself as nothing, as helpless before the monster
he confronted.  So vast and terrible was the Warlock Lord's power that
no man could prevail against it.  So immutable was that power that no
magic could overcome it.  The voice whispered the words insistently.

Put down the sword.  Come to me.  You are nothing.  Come to me.

But the Elf King had already seen himself reduced to his essence, had
witnessed the worst of what he was, and even the terrible despair that
ripped through him as the Warlock Lord approached was not enough to
turn him aside.  Truth did not frighten him now.  He lifted the Sword
before him, a bright silver thread within the gloom, and cried out,
"Shannara!
Shannara!"

Down came the Sword, smashing through the Warlock Lord's defenses,
shattering his magic, and penetrating to the cloaked form beyond.  The
Warlock Lord shuddered, desperately trying to hold back the blow.  But
now the Sword's light was pulsing from the blade into the cloaked
shadows, and the images of his own life were ripping through him.  The
Warlock Lord fell back a step, then another.  Jerle Shannara pressed
forward, re pulsed by the rage and hatred that emanated from his
adversary, but relentless in his determination.  The struggle between
them would end here.  The Warlock Lord would die this day.

The robed arms flung toward him, and a skeletal hand pointed with cold
purpose.

How can you judge me?  You left her to die!  You abandoned her for
this!  You killed her!

He flinched from the words, and he saw in harsh images Preia Starle's
helpless form sprawled on the ground, bleeding and broken a Skull
Bearer reaching for her with claws ex tended.  Dying because of me, he
thought in horror.  Because I failed her.

The Warlock Lord's voice pressed in upon his thoughts.

And your friend, Elf King.  At the Chew Magna.  He died for you!
You let him die for you!

Jerle Shannara screamed in dismay and rage, and wielding the Sword as
he would an ordinary weapon, he slashed at the Warlock Lord with all
the power he could muster.  The Sword cut downward through the dark
robes, but the light that shone from the blade flickered as if
stricken.  The Warlock Lord crumpled, his hateful voice fading in a
whisper of despair, his dark robes collapsing in a heap.

Left behind was a shadowy presence that fled instantly into the mist.

The Elf King went rigid in the ensuing silence, staring at the air
before him, then at the empty robes, his eyes filled with uncertainty
and questions that refused all answers.

MARETH STOOD ALONE on a stretch of ground scorched black by her
magic.
The Druid fire had expended itself finally, and her power was contained
once more.  Bodies lay everywhere, and an eerie silence hung across the
battleground like a pall.  She squinted through the haze and watched it
begin to clear.  There was a long, low wall of anguish, a cacophony of
voices lifting in despair, Out from the mist rose wraiths as 
substanceless as smoke, dark images against the failing daylight,
shapeless and adrift.  Were they the spirits of the dead?  They rose
into the red of the sunset and disappeared, gone as if they had never
been.  Below, the bodies of the Skull Bearers turned to ash, the
netherworld creatures faded away, and the wolves ran howling across the
empty plains.

It is finished, she thought in stunned disbelief.

The mist churned and brightened and then disappeared.
The battleground lay revealed, a charnel house, strewn with dead and
wounded, bloodied and scorched and ruined.  At its center stood the Elf
King with his sword lowered and his eyes fixed on nothing, 

Mareth reached for the Druid staff she had lost in her struggle.  She saw
Risca then, sprawled amid a cluster of enemy dead.
He had sustained so many wounds that his clothing was soaked through
with his blood.  There was a startled look in his open, staring eyes,
as if he were surprised that the fate he had challenged so often had
claimed him at last.  When had he fallen?
She hadn't even seen.  Her gaze shifted.  Kinson Ravenlock lay a few
feet behind her, his chest rising and falling weakly against the
bloodied ground.  Beyond, a little farther back on the flats, crouched
Bremen and the boy.  Her eyes locked on the Druid's, and for a moment
they stared fixedly at each other.  She thought of how long and hard
she had looked for him, of how much she had given of herself to become
a Druid, and of the price that had been exacted from her.  Bremen and
she.  They were the past and present of things, the Druid in twilight
and the Druid to be.  Tay Trefenwyd was gone.  Risca lay dead.  Bremen
was an old man.  Soon, she would be all that remained of their order,
the last of the Druids.

Her eyes left Bremen's, and she picked up the staff.  She held it in
her hands as if it were weighted with the responsibility of being who
and what she was, and she gazed out across the battleground in
despair.

Tears came to her eyes.

Let it end here, she thought.

Then she cast the staff away from her and bent to cradle Kinson.

CHAPTER 34

JERLE SHANNARA SAVED THE LIFE of his queen that day, for by banishing
the Warlock Lord he banished the Skull Bearers as well, including the
one that threatened Preia.
Without the power of the Warlock Lord to draw upon, Preia's assailant
simply faded away.  Preia recovered from her in juries and returned
with Jerle to the Westland.  Together, they ruled the Elven nation for
many years.  They never fought in an other battler the need for them to
do so never arose again.  In stead, they gave their energies over to
learning how to govern in an increasingly complex and demanding
world.
With Vree Erreden to advise them, they were able to master the craft of
statesmanship.  They had three children of their own, all daughters,
and when Jerle Shannara died, many years later, the eldest of the sons
they had adopted from the last of the Ballindarrochs succeeded him.
The Shannara line would subsequently multiply and continue afterward
for more than two hundred years.

The Sword of Shannara was carried by the king until his death.

His son, on succeeding him, carried it afterward for a time, then had
it set in a block of Tre-Stone, taken to Paranor, and placed in the
Druid's Keep.

Kinson Ravenlock did not die from his wounds, but recovered after
weeks of convalescence in the fledgling outpost of Tyrsis.  Mareth
stayed at his side and cared for him, and when he was well enough they
traveled west along the Mermidon to a wooded island in the shadow of
the Dragon's Teeth, where they made their home.  They lived together
afterward and eventually married.  They farmed, then built a trading
center and opened a supply route along the river.  Others from the
Border lands moved up to join them, and soon they were in the midst of
a thriving community.  In time the trading settlement would become the
city of Kern.

Mareth never again used her magic in the Druid cause.  She turned her
skills instead to healing and was widely sought after throughout the
Four Lands.  She took Kinson's name when she married him, and there was
never afterward any mention of her own.  Kinson worried after her for a
long time, thinking her magic would break free again, that it would
undermine her resolve, but it never did.  They had several children,
and long after they were gone a child born of their lineage would
figure prominently in another battle with the Warlock Lord.

Raybur survived and returned home with the Dwarves to begin the arduous
task of rebuilding Culhaven and the other cities the Northland army had
destroyed.  He took Risca with him and buried the Druid in the newly
replanted Gardens of Life, high on a promontory where it was possible
to watch the Silver River flow for miles through the forests of the
Anar.

The Northland army was virtually annihilated that day on the
Streleheim.  Those Trolls and Gnomes who had fled earlier from the
Valley of Rhenn eventually found their way home.
The power of the Warlock Lord was broken, and the Races north and east
began the painful process of rebuilding their shattered lives.
Both Gnome and Troll nations, tribal by nature, distanced themselves
from the other Races, and for a time there was little contact.  It
would be more than a hundred years before a form of parity returned
between victors and vanquished and commerce could be resumed on an
equal footing.

Bremen disappeared soon after the final battle.  No one saw him go.  No
one knew where he went.  He said goodbye to Mareth, and through her to
a still unconscious Kinson.  He told the young woman that he would not
see either one of them again.  There were rumors afterward that he had
returned to Paranor to live out the last years of his life, Kinson
thought sometimes to go in search of him, to find out the truth of
things.  But he never did.

Jerle Shannara saw him once more, less than a month after the battle at
the Rhenn, late at night for only a few minutes when the old man came
to Arborlon to spirit away the Black Elfstone.  They spoke of the
talisman in whispers, as if the words themselves were too painful to
bear, as if even mention of the dark magic might scar their souls.

That was the last time anyone saw him.

The boy Allanon disappeared as well.

Slowly the world returned to the way it had been, and memories of the
Warlock Lord began to fade.

THREE YEARS PASSED.  On a late summer's day warm and bright with
sunshine, an old man and a boy climbed through the foot hills of the
Dragon's Teeth toward the Valley of Shale.  Bremen was wizened and bent
with age now, and the gray of his hair and beard had gone white.  He no
longer moved easily, and his eyes were beginning to fail.  Allanon was
fifteen, taller and much stronger, his shoulders broad, his arms and
legs rangy and powerful.  Already he was approaching manhood, his face
beginning to reveal the dark shadow of a beard, his voice deep and
rough.
By now he was nearly Bremen's equal in use of the Druid magic.
But it was the old man who led and the boy who followed on their last
journey together.

For three years Allanon had trained with Bremen.  The old man had
accepted that the boy would succeed him when he was gone, that Allanon
would be the last of the Druids, Tay and Risca were dead, and Mareth
had chosen another path.  The boy was young, but he was eager to learn
and it was clear from the first that he possessed the determination and
strength necessary to become what he must.  Bremen worked with him
every day for those three years, teaching him what he knew of the magic
of the Druids and the secrets of their power, giving him the chance to
experiment and to discover.  Allanon was fierce in this as in all
things, single-minded almost to a fault, driven to succeed.  He was
smart and intuitive, and his prescience did not diminish with his
growth.  Frequently Allanon saw what was hidden from the old man, his
sharp mind grasping possibilities that even the Druid had not
recognized.  He stayed with Bremen at Paranor, the two of them
closeted away from the world, studying the Druid Histories, practicing
the lessons that the ancient tomes taught.  Bremen used his magic to
conceal their presence in the empty fortress from others.  No one came
to disturb them.  No one sought to intrude.

Bremen thought often on the Warlock Lord and the events that had led to
his banishing.  He spoke of it with the boy, relating to him all of
what had transpired-of the destruction of the Druids, of the search for
the Black Elfstone, of the forging of the Sword of Shannara, and of the
battle for the Rhenn.  He imparted the particulars orally to Allanon
and then inscribed them on the pages of the Druid Histories.
In private he worried for the future.  His own strength was failing.
His life was coming to an end.  He would not see his work completed.
That would be left to Allanon and those who succeeded him.  But how
insufficient that seemed!  It was not enough to hope that the boy and
his successors would carry on without him.  His was the responsibility
and his the hand that was needed to carry it out.

So four days earlier he had called the boy to him and told him that his
lessons were finished.  They would be leaving Paranor for the Hadeshorn
to make one last visit to the spirits of the dead.  They packed
provisions and departed the Keep at sunrise.  Before doing so the old
man summoned the magic that warded Paranor's walls and closed the
ancient fortress away.
Out from the depths of the Druid Well rose the ancient magic that lived
there, swirling upward in a wicked green light.  By the time the boy
and the old man were safely clear, Paranor had be gun to shimmer with
the damp translucence of a mirage, melting slowly into the sunlight,
disappearing into the air.  It would appear and fade again at regular
intervals thereafter, sometimes at brightest noon, sometimes at darkest
night, but it would never stay.  The boy said nothing as they turned
away and walked into the trees, but the old man could see from his eyes
that he understood what was happening.

Thus they approached at sunset the entrance to the Valley of Shale and
made camp in the shadow of the Dragon's Teeth.
They ate their dinner in silence, watching the darkness deepen and the
stars brighten.  With the coming of midnight, they rose and walked to
the edge of the valley and looked down into its obsidian bowl.  The
Hadeshorn glimmered with starlight, placid and undisturbed.  No sound
came from the valley.  Nothing stirred on its broken surface.

"I will be leaving you this night," the old man said finally.

The boy nodded, but said nothing.

"I will be here when you have need of me again."  He paused.
"That will not happen for a while, I expect.  But when it does, this is
where you will come."

The boy looked at him uncertainly.

Bremen sighed, noting the confusion in his eyes.  "I must tell you
something now that I have never told to anyone, not even Jerle Shannara
himself.  Sit with me and listen."

They seated themselves on the carpet of broken rock, solitary figures
silhouetted against the backdrop of the stars.  The old man was silent
for a moment as he worked to arrange the words he needed to speak, the
lines of his face deepening.

"Jerle Shannara failed in his attempt to destroy the Warlock Lord," he
said finally.  "When he faltered in his use of the Sword, when he
allowed himself to be distracted by self-doubt and re crimination, he
let Brona escape.  I knew of this failure because, although too
weakened by my own use of the Druid magic to go on, I followed the king
in my mind's eye and thereby wit nessed the confrontation.  I watched
him hesitate at the last moment, then attempt to use the talisman as
an ordinary weapon, forgetting my repeated warnings to rely on the
magic alone.  I saw the dark shadows rise out of the mist as the
Warlock Lord's robes collapsed beneath the Sword's final blow, and I
knew what that meant.  The Warlock Lord and his Skull Bearers had been
driven from their substantive forms by the magic, had been compelled to
become dark spirits once more, and had fled back into the ether-but
they had not been destroyed."

He shook his head.  "There is no reason to tell any of this to the
king.  Telling him would accomplish nothing.  Jerle Shannara was a
brave and resourceful champion.  He overcame his own misgivings and
fear to employ the Druid magic against the most formidable enemy in the
history of the Four Lands.
He did so under the most adverse of conditions and cruelest of
circumstances, and in all ways but one he succeeded in accomplishing
what was expected of him.  It is enough that he de feated the Warlock
Lord and drove him from the Four Lands.  It is enough that the magic of
the Sword of Shannara has diminished the rebel Druid's power so
utterly that it will be centuries before he can regain form.  There is
sufficient time in the scheme of things to prepare for when that
happens.  jerle Shannara did the best he could, and I think you should
leave it at that."

His aging eyes fixed on Allanon.  "But you must know of his failure,
because you are the one who must guard against its consequences.
Brona lives and will one day return.  I will not be there to face
him.
You must do so in my place-or if not you, another like you, one you
will choose as I have chosen you."

There was a long silence as they stared at each other in the soft,
enveloping darkness.

Bremen shook his head helplessly.  "If there were another way to do
this, I would choose that way."  He felt uncomfortable speaking of it,
as if by doing so he was looking for an excuse to change his mind when
he knew he could not.  "I wish I could stay longer with you, Allanon.
But I am old, and I can feel my self weakening almost daily.
I have kept myself whole for as long as I can.  The Druid Sleep is no
longer enough.  I must take another form if I am to be of service to
you in the battle you face.  Do you understand what I am saying?"

The boy looked at him, his dark eyes intense.  "I under stand."
He paused, the light changing in his eyes.  "I will miss you,
Father."

The old man nodded.  The boy called him that now.  Father.
The boy had adopted him, and it felt right that he had done so.
"I will miss you, too," he replied softly.

They talked more of what it was that would happen then, of the past and
the future and the inextricable link that bound the one to the other.
They shared the memories they had forged in their time together,
repeated the vows they had made, and recounted the lessons that would
matter in the years ahead.

Then, as the night lengthened and dawn approached, they walked together
into the Valley of Shale.  A mist had formed as the air cooled, and now
it hung like a shroud above the valley, cloaking it in shimmering
darkness, screening away the stars and their silver light.
Their boots crunched on the loose rock, and their hearts beat with
rough anticipation.  They felt the heat rise off their bodies as they
worked their way downward along the valley slopes, then across the
floor toward the lake.  The Hadeshorn gleamed like black ice 'smooth
and still.  Not even the faintest ripple scratched its mirrored
surface.

When they were a dozen feet from the lake's dark edge, Bremen withdrew
the Black Elfstone from his robes and passed it to the boy.

"Keep it safe for when you would return to the Keep," he reminded
him.
"Remember what it is for.  Remember what I have told you of its
power.
Be wary."

"I will," Allanon assured him.

He is just a boy, the old man thought suddenly.  I am asking him to
take on so much, and he is just a boy.  He stared at Allanon in spite
of himself, as if by doing so he might discover something he had
missed, some particular of his character that would further reassure
him.  Then he turned away.  He had done what he could to prepare the
boy.  It would have to be enough.

He walked alone to the shore's edge and stared out over the dark
waters.  He closed his eyes, gathered himself for what was needed, then
used the Druid magic to summon the spirits of the dead.  They came
swiftly, almost as if expecting his call, as if waiting for it.  Their
cries rose out of the silence, the earth rumbled, and the waters of
the Hadeshorn rolled like a cauldron set upon a fire.  Steam hissed,
and voices whispered and moaned within the shadowy depths.  Slowly the
spirits began to lift out of the mist and spray, out of the whirlpool
of darkness, out of the tortured cries.  One by one they appeared, the
tiny, silver shapes of the lesser spirits first, then the larger,
darker form of Galaphile.

Bremen turned then and looked back to where Allanon stood waiting.
He saw in that instant the particulars of Galaphile's fourth vision,
the one he had failed to understand for so long-himself, standing
before the waters of the Hadeshorn: Galaphile's shade, approaching
through the mist and the swirl of lost spirits; and Allanon, his eyes
so sad, watching it happen.

The shade came steadily on, an implacable presence, a shadow drawn
blacker than the night through which he passed.
He walked upon the waters of the Hadeshorn as if upon solid round,
advancing to where Bremen waited.  The old man stretched out one hand
to greet the spirit, his thin body rigid and worn.

"I am ready," he said softly.

The shade gathered him in his arms and bore him away across the waters
of the Hadeshorn and down into their depths.

Allanon stood alone on the shore, staring silently.  He did not move as
the waters went still again.  He stayed motionless as the darkness
faded and the sun crested the Dragon's Teeth.
One hand clutched the Black Elfstone tightly within his dark robes.
His eyes were hard and steady.

When the sun had risen completely into the morning sky and the last of
the shadows had been chased from the valley, he turned and walked
away.

TheEnd.
